Hurry Up And Save Me
by HardyBoyz4Eva
Summary: AU. John's father, Hunter Helmsley, runs a halfway house for teenage offendors. John is known for attracting unwanted attention from the residents, as well as from bullies at school and his wrestling instructor, Mark Calloway. But when one particular resident catches his eye, it will take a miracle for both of them to make it out alive. Randy/John. Slash. Warnings Inside.
1. Introduction

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.  
**Dedication:** Sadistically Arousing RKO JC WB

* * *

Dazed, I was barely able to focus in on Wade as he took hold of my short, military-style brown hair and slammed my head back into the nearest locker. I heard the sick _crack_ that followed and knew, somehow, that the back of my head had cracked. Hot, sticky blood flowed down onto my neck. And then, Wade was in my face. His snarl was blurred, but I could tell that, even if I couldn't remember what I had done, I had really crossed him this time.

With the look of lust in his wide, dark eyes, one would assume that this crazed beast was my boyfriend. Unfortunately, or fortunately, however you chose to look at it, that was not the case. Wade was no more than a classic school bully. He was abused at home, nagged by his friends, and it was all released in each cruel blow to my smaller body. Even as a senior, I hadn't come into my own. In fact, I kind of looked like I was malnourished and, frankly, abused.

I felt my eyes slowly start to slide closed. That didn't last for long. Within seconds of my eyes closing, Wade's hand had slid from my hair and onto my neck. He throttled me once, twice, and then slammed my shoulders back into the lockers so hard that they dented under the pressure. I wheezed uneasily. Blood cogged my throat and I turned away, spit the blood out, and swallowed hard. I was almost certain that I would be sick.

Wade started to stroke my hair softly. "You look so beautiful like this, little Johnny. Bathed in blood, doubled over, about to pass out from the pain of it all. So, so beautiful…" Wade trailed off.

"D-D0n't do this, W-Wade. You d-do-don't have to. Please. Just l-let… Just l-let me…" I bent over, unintentionally using his shoulder as a crutch as I tried to expel the blood from my throat.

"Let you _what_? Johnny, baby, I'm afraid that you'll have to be a little louder. I can't hear you over the sound of your blood-congested breathing." Wade smirked darkly.

"I don't want to do this, W-Wade. If you j-just let m-me le-leave, the-then I won't tell m-my -," Wade cut me off with a cold hand around my throat and he jerked my head to the side.

"Tell whom? You're _Daddy_? Oh, that's so sweet. Little Johnny is gonna run and tell his Daddy that the big-bad brawler, Wade Barrett. Like that little bitch could do a damn thing about it." Wade snickered.

"D-Don't talk a-about hi-him like that!" I screamed, choked, and immediately fell silent.

"And what are you planning on doing about it, baby boy?" Wade's accent thickened as he fumbled for my zipper.

"Please, don't do t-this. At le-least, not o-out here. S-Somebody co-could see."

Wade snickered, but whether it was because he didn't care who saw or because he found my discomfort amusing, I wasn't too sure. One could never be entirely sure when it came to Wade Barrett. The older teen, who had been held in his senior year three times, had been my tormentor since elementary school. Only recently had I realized that it wasn't a maliciousness inside of him that caused this, but an untouched lust that had brewed ever since our first encounter.

Wade started to work his hands into my jeans and I was too weak to shove him off. The pain in my shoulders had magnified tenfold and I felt as if someone had touched a lighter to my skin. He forced them down, just far enough to obtain access to my boxers, and then he slid those down as well. He took an almost protective position over my half-naked body, but I knew it was only to block our actions from the view of the security camera nearby.

"P-Please, Wade. The-There's still a chance. We d-don't have to d-do this. Y-You're scaring m-me, Wade." I confessed honestly, but it did little to sway the already muddied conscience of Wade Barrett.

"Yes, we _do_ have to do this, Johnny boy. You're mine and it's about damn time that you learned that."

I screamed, but Wade took me by the hair and slammed me face-first into the locker. "D-Don't -,"

"Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you!"

I took the hint and shut my mouth, but not before I felt the wet, hot embarrassment of tears streak down my face. Finally, I could bare the silence no more. "W-Wade, please."

Wade took my hair, slammed me forward, and now I tasted blood as teeth chipped and were loosened from the gums. "You better learn to listen better, shitter! I don't have to take this crap from you!"

"No, you don't." I agreed hurriedly. "So why c-can't you le-let me go?"

Wade punched me in the stomach and stars danced before my eyes. "Shut the fuck up!"

I noticed, disheartened, that he had his pants down now. Anxiously, he worked on his boxers. I noted with disdain that I hadn't even healed from the last brutal attack. The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach as I tried to describe to my father the reason for the bloodstains on the seat of my jeans was one that was difficult to forget. He had been so worried over me and all I could do was smile and lie to his face. I felt awful, but it had to be done.

Life tended to be that way when your father ran a halfway house for juvenile delinquents who had just been released from prison. A lot of the time, the boys that came in and out saw me as a cute little fuck toy with no ramifications. They didn't realize that every time I was abused, it took a little bit of my joy away. And now, well, I was a bit tired of being pushed around. Dad could see that too. That's why he had signed me up with trainer, Mark Calloway.

Wade didn't prep me. He just shoved in, shoving my face into ice-cold metal to muffle my screams. I barely even noticed when a larger body came around from behind and yanked Wade off, throwing him to the ground with his pants still around his ankles. I shivered, feeling wet blood start to slither down my legs again. It hurt like all fuck and I slowly slid down so that I was on my knees. Soon, there would be blood everywhere.

"Get the fuck out of here before I beat your sorry ass to a bloody fucking pulp!" The unknown teen yelled. Well, he didn't really yell. He was too calm for it to be considered a 'yell'. Instead, it was more of a deliberate warning.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? You can't do this to me!" Wade screamed. Suddenly, he was on his feet. I could feel his hand on my shoulder. But then, there was the sudden sound of bare skin and tile.

"I told you to take your hands off of him." He hissed. "Now, I would suggest that you take my advice and leave now. I don't want to do something that I will regret later." He said.

Thankfully, Wade took his advice and ran off. My savior then walked over to me and knelt down on the floor, helping me to redress, even if it coated his otherwise pristine clothes in my blood. A dark blush dotted across my cheeks and, not for the first time, I wished that I was stronger. I wished that I could take better care of myself. That way, I wouldn't need to ask for help from anyone. Especially not a random student that I had never seen before.

"Are you okay?" He asked. He had a thick, southern accent.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine." And then, I saw _just_ how much blood there was. "Okay, maybe I'm not." Dazed, I swooned and fell into his waiting arms. My blush only darkened.

"Maybe I should take you to the nurse…" He trailed off as he helped me to my feet. I opened my eyes and met his icy blue orbs, unsure if I could trust the honest sincerity in his tone.

"You don't have to do that. I can… walk… walk myself…" and then, with the room spinning rapidly around me, it all faded into black.


	2. My Brother, Brock

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

I awoke with a violent wave of nausea. Blearily, I looked shifted and was immediately bombarded with a malicious stab from behind. Before I could contain it, a moan slid out. "What… What happened to me?"

My father sat in the old, wooden rocker behind my bed. It had been in our family ever since my older brother, Brock, had been born. "The nurse said that one of the students attacked you. Do you remember the encounter at all?"

"No." I answered immediately. It came out much too fast, too harsh. Both of us knew that it was a blatant lie. "Did you come and take me home?" The answered seemed obvious, but I had to know for sure.

Much to my shock, my father shook his head. "No, actually. I received the call around noon and offered to come in, but the nurse said that another boy had offered to take you home. You wouldn't let go of him, she said."

A dark blush dotted my cheeks and I had to look away. "So, he came by here?" I was almost afraid to ask. Normally, on the rare occasion that I actually made a friend, they were scared away by the residents of the halfway house.

"Actually, he _lives_ here." Now, _that_ caught me off guard. "His name is Randal Orton. He's our newest resident. In fact, he only arrived this afternoon. He was enrolled in the school and that's when he met you."

"You didn't tell me that we were taking in another resident." I looked down nervously. I had never told my Dad about what went on behind closed doors. He was so supportive of these boys; it would just break his heart.

"I didn't know myself. As it turns out, he was released early due to his good behavior. If you're up to it, his room is just down the hall. I'd like you to show him around the house. Make him feel at home."

"Yeah, sure Dad." I swallowed hard and nodded. To be honest, I didn't really want to leave the warm comfort of my bed. But I would do it for him, because he had sacrificed his entire life for me. "Can I take a shower first?"

He nodded. "Whatever you want, Johnny. Once you've shown him around, come down to the kitchen and have the leftovers from lunch. You didn't eat at school and I want something in your stomach."

I nodded and forced a smile, thankful that he didn't see through my façade. "Okay, Dad."

He looked me over once with his careful eyes, before he dismissed my attitude as teenage hormones and made his exit. When the door clicked shut behind him, I looked down at the bloodstained linen awkwardly. The stains weren't terribly obvious and were mostly beneath me, which was why my father hadn't noticed. However, the fact that they were there at all made my stomach sink. Wade certainly had done a number on me. It wasn't the first time.

Carefully, I rolled onto my side and slid my feet off of the side of the bed. With the ease of a man who had broken every bone in his body, I stumbled to my feet. My balance failed me almost immediately and I was down on my knees, my head near the trashcan. The nausea returned and I scrambled forward a little bit more, only to vomit in the tiny bin. My stomach rumbled and I wondered how it was possible to be hungry and nauseous all at once.

When I finished, I tried to stand once more. This time, it was a little easier. Pain tore through my thighs and my lower back and I moaned, noticing for the first time that the flow of blood had started anew. Frantically, I searched for something to staunch the flow. The only thing available was a ratty, tattered white towel. And as much as I hated to ruin the one white thing left in this hellhole, I yanked it off of the shelf and put pressure on the wound.

Behind me, there was a trail of tiny droplets of blood. I would have to wash them before they set into the wooden floor. Taking care to not jostle myself more than I had to, I sat down on the toilet seat and turned my head up toward the ceiling. There was a nasty tangle of cracks there. The bathroom on the third floor had had several leaks over the years and it had taken its toll on the ceiling. Disinterested, I turned away.

There was a knock on the door. I knew it wasn't my Dad, because he would be downstairs in his office by now. I didn't want to think too hard about who it could be, even if I had an inkling about who it was… "Who's there?"

"Dad sent me to make sure you didn't fall and kill yourself in the shower. Seeing as you're able to respond to me, I'm assuming that you're alright." Brock's cold, uncaring voice came from the other side of the door.

"I'm just fine, Brock. No need to bust one of your few brain cells actually pretending like you care." I shot back, but I was only so brave because there was a door between us. I never would have said that to his face.

Brock snarled on the other side of the door. He had started in on the steroids in the tenth grade and, mixed with his bipolar depression, he tended to have particularly violent bouts of 'roid rage. "You're a little shitter, you know that?"

I closed my eyes. I would have to back off if I wanted him to do something for me. "Hey, Brock?"

"What is it, you little shit-head?" He hissed back. I could tell that he was seconds away from leaving me alone.

"Can you head downstairs and grab three Tylenol from the medicine cabinet? I can barely move."

Brock laughed coldly. He didn't agree to my request and I had a feeling that he had no intention of doing so. "Why the fuck would I do that? It's your own damn fault that you can't defend yourself. You _deserved_ it."

I sighed. His words had absolutely no relevance, I knew that. I had learned a long time ago that there were too many one-sided relationships in this world. You give and give, but when you need something in return, nobody is there for you. It hurt to think that my older brother, someone connected to me by blood, could be on the other end of that one-sided relationship. But then, could I ever expect more from an asshole like Brock Helmsley?

Once the flow of blood slowed down a little bit, I rose and turned on the shower. Dad had once told me (for what reason, I can't remember) that ice water slowed down the flow of blood. If I was going to show Randy around this hellhole, then I could at least look halfway presentable. My stomach twisted again and I worried if I would puke for a second time, but managed to control myself. I would have to take an antacid later, though.

* * *

I hesitated for a moment, knocked on the door, and waited for Randy to answer it. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry, I…" I stuttered out. "My Dad told me to come and show you around. Did I interrupt something?" I asked sincerely. Years of life with my brother had taught me that the worst of punishments were born from interruptions.

Randy shook his head. "Not like there's anything to do around here, other than homework. So, to answer your question – no, you didn't interrupt anything." Randy stared at me levelly.

"Then, um… I guess that we will start the tour, then." I told him.

I wasn't really all that impressed with our halfway house, so it was difficult to enthuse about it to Randy. However, I did my best. It was in disrepair, so I showed him all of the little quirks that the house had. For example, you can't take the main staircase down from the second to the first floor, because there was a hole in the stair and you'd miss it if you didn't know it was there. It was better to take the back staircase, which let you out in the kitchen.

Of the three floors, Randy was most interested in the main floor. There was a library, my Dad's office, the kitchen/dining room, the living room, and the study. Randy instantly gravitated toward the study, which was a spacious room with floor to ceiling windows. It was so open and warm. I was fairly certain that this was the only room in the house that hadn't fallen victim to the effects of weather and time.

We entered inside the study and I watched with a smile as Randy looked around, in awe at the size of it. I almost missed the nearly non-existent knock on the door. "Well, if it isn't my baby brother's savior…"


	3. Lunch

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s): **Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

Randy didn't seem interested in Brock at all. The tall brunette wandered over to one of the bookshelves, took one of the books down, and brushed the dust off of the front cover. He looked at it in utter adoration. He stroked the front cover with a tenderness that could almost be considered reverent. And in that moment, I couldn't see him as an ex-convict. I didn't see him as a nineteen-year-old with blood on his hands. I saw an innocent sliver of that old self.

Brock, obviously annoyed with the fact that nobody had acknowledged his presence, stormed into the room and yanked the book from his hand. Randy tensed. I watched as his muscles rippled underneath his dark blue t-shirt. The awkward tension in the room could have been cut with a knife, and when Randy's head slowly turned in Brock's direction, I had to wonder if Randy intended to kill my brother. And before I knew it, Randy had turned so that they were face-to-face.

"Is there a reason why you felt the need to yank the damn book out of my hand?" Randy's voice was eerily soft and his hard, cold blue eyes were focused on my brother's steroid-enhanced chest.

"I just wanted to thank you for saving our damsel in distress, here." Brock said. His eyes never left Randy's as he motioned in my direction. "God knows he couldn't do it himself. The poor idiot couldn't kill a fly with a fly swatter the size of China."

Randy shot a look in my direction and I blushed darkly, unable to meet his eyes. "Don't bring him into this. Hand the book over and leave. I'm not in the mood to deal with you."

Brock chuckled darkly. "Not in the mood to deal with me? Could it be that your skull is honestly that thick? I _live_ here, and last time I checked, Daddy Dearest isn't about to kick me out on the streets…"

"Unfortunately…" I breathed out, thinking foolishly that all attention had been diverted from me.

"What was that, you little shit?" Brock started to advance on me, but Randy's hand hooked his shoulder and held him back.

Randy yanked backward and Brock stumbled, almost falling over his own two feet. I had to withhold a short, humorless laugh. "I thought that I told you to leave him out of this."

Brock didn't take too kindly to that. In another fit of fury, he lost all sense of reason and thrust one meaty club in the direction of Randy's head. My heart clenched and I waited for the wet _smack_ of skin on skin, of blood as it burst forth from the skin, of bone as it shattered. But none of it came. Instead, there was a loud _crack_ and I turned in time to see Randy twist Brock around and send him directly through our rickety old couch. The structure broke with the force of the impact.

I shuddered, unable to believe what I had just seen. Brock moaned weakly, and from the look on _his_ face, I could tell that he couldn't believe it either. He breathed heavily and, just above his brow, there was a long, deep scratch where the splintered wood had cut his skin. For one dreadful minute, I worried that Brock actually _would_ kill him now. But Brock only climbed to his feet, his eyes on the book that Randy had wanted. It was dotted with Brock's blood.

"You want this?" Brock asked lowly. His eyes flickered between the book to Randy, and when Randy nodded, Brock put his muddy boot down on it. "Well, this is how I feel about your fucking little book."

"Brock, don't -,"

"Did I ask for your insignificant opinion?" Brock bit out. I swallowed hard and shook my head. "I didn't think so."

Brock slammed his foot down onto the binding of the book, watching with twisted glee as the pages bent and tore. I watched all of this with growing unease, taking careful note of the way that Randy's body contorted with painful tension. And finally, when the book was horrifically mangled, he _spit_ on it. That was uncalled for. Bending to retrieve the text, he handed the bloody and saliva-coated first-edition book to Randy. His sadistic smile was back.

"I'd like to see you try and read that shit now." Brock said. He fed on the torture in Randy's dark blue eyes. "I'll see the both of you at lunch." I wasn't sure if there was a threat beneath his words, but I shivered nonetheless.

When the door slammed behind Brock, I turned to Randy with a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Randy. Brock is just… well, he's Brock. You learn to ignore him after awhile." I said. "What was that book about, anyhow?"

Randy looked down at the mangled book and that tortured look returned. "It was a first-edition of _Alice in Wonderland."_

A wave of confusion hit. Why would Randy be so interested in a book like _Alice in Wonderland_? "Hmm?"

"My mother used to read it to me when I was little. Before…" here, he trailed off. The torture in his eyes morphed to pain, and from there, a dreaded and uncomfortable realization. "What's for lunch?"

"What?" I asked, not expecting such a sudden and drastic change in the subject of the conversation. "Oh… most likely soup. My Dad could start water on fire, so he doesn't get too technical with the cooking."

"That's okay." He forced a smile and I could see the pain that was clearly etched into his eyes. "I've never been a picky eater." He walked over to me, still holding that ruined book close.

"Well, then… we can continue with the rest of the tour, which will lead us to the kitchen. Don't worry, I promise the rest of the residents aren't as poorly behaved as Brock…" I couldn't even finish out my own lie.

* * *

When we finally arrived in the kitchen, I wasn't surprised to find Adam at the stove with my father. Adam was the son of one of my Dad's close friends, Judy Copeland. At twenty-years-old, he was two years my senior. Already, he had one child by his boyfriend, and, if the news that I had heard was accurate, soon to be fiancé, Jeff Hardy. But his boyfriend was deployed overseas and Adam worried over him constantly. They wrote to each other constantly.

However, when Adam wasn't worrying over Jeff, he was at the halfway house. Despite my older brother's heart being blackened by steroids, he had still somehow managed to fall in love with the sweet blond. Not that it was hard. Adam was sweet, dedicated, and above all, he loved his little girl. He brought new warmth into the halfway house that wasn't there when he wasn't around, and I had to admit that I kind of liked it.

I led Randy into the kitchen and tapped Adam on the shoulder. The blond made a soft noise in the back of his throat, before he turned around, a dishtowel in his hands. Hazel eyes met icy blue and Adam smiled meekly. Despite all of the things that he had going for him, an unfortunate side-effect of all of that was he was terribly shy. Painfully so. Still, he put on his best face and extended a now-dry hand. Randy took it. The book was still tucked under his arm.

"Randy, this is Adam Copeland. Somehow, he helps my Dad to make the food somewhat edible." I smiled sweetly at Adam and he chuckled in return. "Adam, this is Randy Orton."

In that moment, a crackle of tension filled the air. What it meant, I wouldn't find out until later. But, I can say with a smile, for the first time since I could remember, lunch went off without a hitch.


	4. Wrestling Practice

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

Dad let me take the rest of the week off of school, and even if I tried to act as if I didn't like his decision, I was thankful. It was hard to deal with the trails of school at 100%, but now that I was wounded? It was unthinkable. Neither Randy nor I had bothered to take the incident with Wade to the office. What would it do? Wade's father was a slimy lawyer with his hands (and his money) in almost every affair in our small little town. It wasn't worth the effort.

However, despite the fact that I was allowed to stay home from school, I still had to head downtown for wrestling training. Mark Calloway was an old friend of my father's. In fact, as I had unintentionally learned, he had been _more_ than a friend at one time. But then, my Dad had met my Father and the rest, as they say, is history. But I can't help but feel like some of that lust that Mark felt for my father had now been directed toward me. Needless to say, it made me uncomfortable.

Now, I locked up with Phil Brooks-Calloway, Mark's own flesh and blood. To say that he was incredibly proud of his son would be an understatement. And he had reason to be. Phil had been accepted into the advanced program of OVW on merit alone and the WWE had scouted him. He was still only a high-school student, but he had quite the future ahead of him. At least, more of a future then the son of the owner of a dead-end halfway house.

Phil broke the hold and twisted my arm toward my back. He took me down a little too easily and scoffed, as if it was incredibly funny. "What's the matter, Johnny? You're usually more enthusiastic than this."

"That _hurts_, Phil." I said with unintended malice. My shoulder was on fire and Phil slowly started to contort it into an even more awkward position. "C'mon, Phil. Let up already!" This time, I screamed at him. It didn't work.

"You're not gonna go very far in life if you can't break a simple arm bar, John. Don't listen to him, Phil. Let him think his way out of it." Mark's voice floated over to us and I could almost detect the sick smile on his face.

Phil shoved me forward, planted my hand flat on the canvas, my elbow toward the ceiling, and stomped on it. I screamed. "You're better than this, Johnny. Show me what you're made of!"

Weakly, I rolled over onto my back and held my throbbing elbow to my chest. "P-Pain…"

Phil, obviously sick of messing around, yanked me to my feet and tossed me into the nearest turnbuckle. "C'mon!"

When he threw his full two-hundred and twelve pounds at me, my stomach lurched and I tumbled down to my knees. I wondered how much more of this I would have to endure before Mark finally decided to call the match. Slowly, Phil started to back away. He aligned himself in the corner and then, after a moment, came at me full-speed. I barely had enough time to roll out of the way before he threw his knee up, missed, and caught himself in the ropes.

"Fuck!" Phil's agonized voice broke the tense silence. Mark hurried over to his son and looked him over, careful not to touch him and somehow compromise the match.

"Are you okay, Phil? Can you finish the match?" I couldn't help but frown as I realized that the same common courtesy had not been extended toward me. Instead, I had been _forced_ to continue the match.

"I'm fine. I'm _fine."_ And he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. "Just -," the rest of his sentence was cut off as the referee tried to help him down, but instead, threw him out of the ropes, causing him to land on his neck.

"Phil!" Mark was clearly concerned now.

Phil groaned, slowly rolling around onto his stomach. "I'm fine. Just… Just give me a chance to get up."

He couldn't even make it to his feet. It made me almost uncomfortable to watch as his leg folded underneath him, unable to support his muscular frame. He slid forward and landed hard on his knees. However, when the ref asked him if he could continue, he nodded furiously and like the recalcitrant soldier that he was, tried one more time. But I could see the truth in his eyes. Phil was hurt _bad_, not that he would _ever_ admit that in front of his father.

In a last ditch effort to save what was left of this match, he gathered his wits about him and charged at me. I dropped down and caught him in a drop-toe hold, wincing at the gasp of sudden, overwhelming pain that rushed from his lungs. Not wanting to but knowing that, with his father around, he would get up and continue the match, no matter the cost, I took his bad leg and contorted it awkwardly, wrapping my hands around his chin to lock in the STF.

He tapped almost immediately. The ref called it. "Ring the bell!"

I pulled off of him seconds later and watched as he writhed in pain. "Hey, man, you okay there? You look like a mess." I tried to force a smile, but it was hard when he was so obviously in pain.

Phil looked to his father, who had his arms crossed over his chest and a nasty look on his face. He nodded hurriedly. "Yeah, I'm just fine. I think I may have tweaked my knee. That's all."

"You need some help back to the locker room?" I asked. I wasn't in the best condition either, but I could still help.

All of the color drained out of Phil's face and he shook his head hastily. "No. I'm fine."

"Okay, then. Suit yourself." I slid out of the ring and took my towel off of the back of one of the metal chairs. And as I neared the door that lead to the locker room hallway, I could've sworn I heard the sound of flesh-on-flesh.

Almost like Mark Calloway had just backhanded his injured son.

* * *

_"_Dad?" I held the cell phone in place with my shoulder as I dried myself off. "Practice is over. Can you come pick me up?" My car was in the junkyard after some local fools decided to shoot it full of lead.

_"Sorry, Johnny. Dave Batista is moving out and I need to make sure that he gets settled into his new house. There's paperwork that needs to be filed, his room needs to be cleaned, and I just found out that we're taking in a new resident next week."_

Once I was dry, I chanced a look out the window. It had started to rain. "Do I walk home, then? I don't mean to sound sarcastic, but I don't really want to die of pneumonia." I whispered bitterly.

_"Well, I could always send your brother Brock out to pick you up…"_ Dad trailed off. My blood turned to ice at the very idea of it. It wasn't safe to be alone with my brother for _any_ extent of time.

"No, no. That's okay. I can walk." I told him hurriedly.

I heard my Dad sigh. _"It's pouring rain out, John. You _can't_ walk home."_

"Well, then, what do you suggest that I do?" I could start to feel my annoyance bud.

The sound of ruffling papers came over the line. _"Well, what about Phil."_ I explained to him that Phil had torn his hamstrings in wrestling practice and wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. _"Well, shit."_

"Exactly." I said, not daring to speak in such a manner in front of my father.

_"Well, there is one alternative."_ Dad's chair squeaked as he leaned back. _"I can send Randy out there. His Bentley drives real smooth."_ How the hell did an ex-convict afford a freaking _Bentley_? "_I know what you're thinking. It was his father's."_

_"Was_ his father's?" I couldn't help but ask.

_"His father is dead. So is his mother."_ Dad answered nonchalantly.

My stomach sank and I couldn't help but feel as if I had intruded where I didn't belong. I swallowed hard and nodded. "Fine. Tell Randy I'll be around back waiting for him." I squeezed my eyes closed. "Love you."

_"Love you too, son."_

The line went dead and I hoped it was because he had hung up, and not because the damn call had been dropped for the umpteenth time. Reaching into my duffel, I took out my sweatpants and a loose, white t-shirt. The t-shirt was ancient, I think that it actually started out as Brock's, or maybe it was my Father's, I wasn't actually sure. Most of my Father's clothes had been dispersed between Brock and I, and when they didn't fit Brock anymore, they became mine.

My Father, Shawn Michaels-Helmsley, had been killed in a gang shootout. And what made it worse was the fact that the cops didn't even care that he died. In our community, there was so much gang activity, so much needless death, that the cops just couldn't handle it all. Unless the death toll reached a significant number, they may not even address the matter at all. Which was one of the reasons why my father started the halfway house. To fix the problem at the root.

And then, as it turned out, Dad took in the two hoodlums that had killed my Father. What killed me was that he didn't even bat an eyelash as they ravaged the house, destroying all that he had worked so hard to do. He was just so proud of the fact that they had turned their lives around. That was the first time that I had been attacked. I was only sixteen. And since that first time, I had sworn to never tell him what happened. Like I said earlier, it would break him.

Once I was fully dressed, I threw my duffel over my shoulder and went around the front to where I had told Dad that I would be. Thick, cold drops of rain fell from the sky and splattered all over the concrete walkway that led back into town. After a few minutes, I saw the Bentley come out of the rain, which acted like a dense cloud of fog. Randy parked so that my door was underneath the awning. When I opened the door, he tossed me a towel.

"What is this?" I looked at it oddly. I was fairly certain that this was the first time I went to climb into someone's car and they threw a _towel_ at me.

"Can't have you get water on my seats, can I? Now, put that down on the seat. Don't lean back. I don't want stains." Randy said, as if this was perfectly logical. I just shook my head, amused. Nonetheless, I did as he said.

"This is a nice car." I said as I slid inside. The heat blasted at me full-force.

Randy tensed a little. Finally, he relaxed and a smile easily took over. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry that you had to come out in this mess. It was so nice out earlier. Heh…" Randy shot me a look out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't think that when Mark made us run the trail through the forest."

"Sounds like he works you hard." Randy said.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe it." I said. "He worked his son into an injury."

"Sounds like a world-class son-of-a-bitch." Randy laughed bitterly at his own joke, not realizing how truthful his statement was. This time, it was _my_ turn to tense.

I leaned my head on the window and closed my eyes. "You don't know the half of it."

* * *

_I felt tears slowly trek down my face as Mark impaled me, blood slickening my hole as he took me with no preparation. The sick smile on his face frightened me. My body trembled as it tried to expel him, but it was useless. And when I tried to scream, Mark closed his hand around my mouth and pressed my neck firmly into the mattress. He was strong, much stronger than I had imagined that he would be. Terrified, I started to flail. However, that only made the pain worse._

_Mark pressed down on the small of my back, drawing out and slamming back inside with damning accuracy. I wasn't erect at all, not that he cared. This was for his pleasure alone and he made that undoubtedly clear. Out. In. The horrific squelch of blood filled my ears and I gagged, barely able to keep myself from vomiting. And the last thing that I heard before I lost consciousness was his demonic laugh as he came, his seed mixing with my blood, inside of me…_


	5. Closer to Randy, Further From Hunter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

A little while after Randy had driven us both back to the halfway house, I decided that I needed to call Phil. It may not have seemed like it before, but he had been the best of friends ever since our days in elementary school. In fact, it was _because_ of the fact that both our father's had known each other since they were little that we met at all. And, while I hated to admit it, in all of the years that I had known Phil, this wasn't the first time that Mark had hit him.

Since I didn't know what room he was in, I called the front desk of the hospital. Sadly, I knew the number by heart. _"Hello, this is the front desk of Grace Mercy Medical, AJ speaking. What can I do for you?"_

AJ Lee was a fellow student at Grace Mercy High School. We weren't exactly friends, but we didn't hate each other either. "This is John Cena-Helmsley. I'm calling to find out what room my friend is in. His name is Phil Calloway."

_"Phil Calloway?"_ Her soft voice floated over the line. I made a small, affirmative sound in the back of my throat. _"One minute, sir."_ Elevator music could be heard as she put me on hold.

I leaned on the desk in the study, my eyes focused on the remains of what used to be our couch. The wooden splinters were still hideously stained with Brock's blood. While it should have repulsed me, for some reason, I found myself fascinated with the story that it told. Someone (for reasons unbeknownst to me) had signed their death wish and confronted my older brother, Brock Helmsley… and they had _won_. It was a terrible feat. It made me smile.

I know that it is wrong to wish ill on anyone, I do. But, out of all of the abuse I've taken over the years, I felt like the most painful betrayal was Brock's. Brock was my older brother. He wasn't supposed to _create_ a problem; he was supposed to help me overcome them. And he _certainly_ wasn't supposed to become the problem himself. I hated Brock with all that was within me. And you know what? I think, no, I'm _certain_ that he hated me _more_.

_"…Mr. Cena-Helmsley, are you still there?" _AJ asked. I shook out of my silent reverie, stunned for a moment.

"Yes, I'm still here." I told her firmly. My tone belied the storm of emotions that warred within my stomach.

_"Good. Phil Calloway is in Room 116. His number is…"_ she read off the digits slowly and made me repeat them back to her. _"I'll patch you through to him now."_

"Thank you for the help, AJ." There was a smile in my tone. AJ may have been a little on the 'unusual side', but she could be incredibly helpful when she wanted to.

_"Not a problem, Mr. Cena-Helmsley. That's what I'm here for."_ And then, she patched me through.

It dawned on me then that I really had no idea about what to say to him. There seemed to be a certain callousness in 'sorry that your Daddy struck you dumb across the face, but if it makes you feel any better, he's had my ass since I was sixteen-years-old'. Yeah, I didn't think that that would settle real well with Phil. Phil held his old man to the gold standard, no less than perfection. If I told him that, he'd tell me it was a lie. Just like that.

But then, on the other hand, there was the Phil that I was seldom allowed to see. This was the Phil that had broken down in class after another student bumped his desk and aggravated a raw, fresh bruise. The look of agony on Phil's face had been heartbreaking. But his words to me after class, well, those left such a bone-chilling impression on me that I remember them still, five years later. 'Sometimes, I think the world would be better off if I wasn't in it'.

"Phil? You there, buddy?" I asked after another moment. A steady flow of curses followed as one of the nurses tried to lift Phil's leg to slide a pillow underneath it. Needless to say, she quit after a rather mediocre effort.

_"Yeah, I'm here."_ He said after a minute. _"I don't wanna be, but the doc says that I tore my hamstring. Not too bad, but bad enough to need surgery. He says I'll be on crutches for six to eight weeks afterword."_

"That doesn't sound too bad." Honestly, it didn't. With all of the ways that that could have ended, it could have been ten times worse. But to Phil, it was like the end of the world.

_"Not too bad? What about all of my scholarships?" _Phil screamed. Mark had him so worked up about these scholarships. And Phil believed every word out of his mouth, because Mark had raised him that way.

"It's only the start of the first semester of our senior year, Phil…" I trailed.

_"Coach McMahon will cut me from the team!"_ He rambled on. Now, he was being irrational.

"If you have a legitimate medical excuse, you _know_ that Coach McMahon can't cut you from the team…"

_"I'll never wrestle!"_

"If you wrestle the way you are now, you'll exacerbate the injury and then you really _won't_ be able to wrestle. Right now, your benched for a month and a half, maybe two. _That's not that bad."_

_"But Dad… he… he…"_ Phil couldn't finish and just continued to ramble on.

My hand clenched to a fist at my side. "What about your Dad, Phil?"

A pause. And then, _"I'm a failure, that's what I am. A failure as a wrestler, a failure as a student, a failure as a son. Sometimes, I think the world would be better off if I wasn't in it."_

There it was again. That phrase. Fourteen words that never failed to cut me to the quick. In all of my years of abuse and torture, never _once_ had I considered suicide to be an out. It would hurt too many people, and I knew for certain that it would kill my Dad. But Phil's situation was different. My Dad was my support system, but Phil's Dad was the one who constantly tore him down. Constantly, I had to worry about Phil's mental health when that man was around.

I had seen Mark backhand his own son, but never once had I opened my mouth to _tell someone_ about it. Maybe it was because I was afraid of Mark. Maybe it was because I was afraid to lose Phil as a friend. Phil may have been afraid of his father, but at the same time, he loved the man to death. And I mean that in the most literal sense. Phil was his father's son, and his father had instilled loyalty into him from the day he was born. Family came first. Always.

I forced a smile. Phil would be able to detect if I was upset and he would feed on it. "Don't say stuff like that, Phil. Think about how it would affect your old man. It would kill him."

Phil sniffled hard and I had to wonder if this entire, fucked-up situation had finally caused all of that loyalty to crumble. _"Or maybe it would just be better for him if I was dead."_

"Phil, your Dad loves you. He's proud of all of the accomplishments that you've made, and even if you hadn't done so well with wrestling or with school, he would love you _anyway_." I assured him.

_"Whatever you say, John."_ Phil answered lightly. From his tone, I could tell that he didn't believe a word I had said.

"Take care of yourself, okay, Phil? You'll beat this. And then, you'll be back wrestling in no time."

_"Whatever you say, John."_ Phil repeated his earlier sentiment. _"Listen, I gotta go. Dad is coming in with one of the nurse's to talk about medication and shit like that. I'll talk to you later, okay?"_

I nodded firmly, even if he couldn't see it. "Okay. Bye."

_"Bye."_ And then, the line went dead.

* * *

A few hours later, I found myself in front of the door to my father's office. I was scared, truth be told. Well, actually, _scared_ isn't the best word to describe how I felt in that moment. Perhaps mortified would be a better one? I had never felt more out of place in my life. In that moment, I walked a dangerously thin line. On the one side, I could lose Phil and any chance at a better future away from this house and this town. On the other, Phil could die.

In both instances, I lost something incredibly valuable that was to be cherished, not just thrown into the fire to watch sparks fly. In the first instance, I lost a dear friend. There was nobody in the world that I was that close to and, if I followed through with my intentions, I may lose them forever. However, in the second instance, Phil lost his life. Friendships could be rebuilt, but once a life was lost, it couldn't be regained. That's what made me knock.

My father invited me inside and I opened the door, immediately flinching as I was blasted with a wave of hot air. Dad's office was the only part of the halfway house that was newly furnished, and that was because he held important meetings with high ranking officials in the government (I had never bothered to learn their names) in there. You had to really look to tell that it was just as run down as the rest of the halfway house. But I wasn't fooled.

"Take a seat, John." My father waved to one of the leather armchairs. I sank into it carefully. "What seems to be the issue?" He asked, signing his name on a stack of papers with a flamboyant wave of his pen.

"Um, Dad… I think that this is one conversation that we need to have face-to-face." I tried to make myself sound firm, but it was difficult with a ball of icy terror at the bottom of my stomach.

My father tensed, but turned around nonetheless. "It must be rather serious, then. Have you remembered anything else about the attack at school?" I hurriedly shook my head. "Alright, then. What is it?"

I swallowed hard and did my best to look anywhere but at his face. "I have this… friend. I don't want to mention his name, because I'm not sure how comfortable he would be with me talking to you about this. Is that okay?" Dad nodded. "So, this friend… you've met him once or twice. Talented, intelligent, athletic…

"Anyhow, he recently ran into some trouble. His Dad was real nasty to him, y'know? His Dad scares him and I can see that. But, at the same time, he admires him because he's been raising him alone all of these years. I guess what I'm trying to say is that his father's behavior has started to make him talk about suicide.

"He never really came out and stated his intentions, but when somebody says 'maybe it would be better for my father if I died', it's kinda hard to misconstrue that. I don't… I don't know what to do to help him. He's a good friend and I don't want to lose him because he made some rash decision or something like that…"

I trailed off slowly, noticing the haunted look in my Dad's eyes. Frantically, I tried to think of what I could have said to make such a look appear on his tired, handsome face. I could have slapped myself then. To use such a generic term as 'my friend' basically screamed 'I'm talking about myself, but I can't tell you that'. And I only supported that with statements like 'he ran into some trouble' and 'he's been raising him alone all these years'. Shit.

I could see that there was fear in his eyes and it killed me to think that it was _my_ fault that it was there. Behind that fear, there was an undeniable pain. In all of his years as a father of two (which was almost twenty-one years now), he had never dreamed that he would lose one of his sons to suicide. Not after he had lost his husband. There was only so much cruelty one man could take, and he had reached his maximum at forty-seven years old.

"You want to… you want to kill yourself, John?" My father choked out, a look of pained bewilderment on his handsome face. He breathed heavily and looked like he would pass out.

"Daddy?" I asked, suddenly worried about _his_ emotional state of well-being. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea after all…

And then, his face went blank. "Can I have a moment, John? I need to… I need to think over what you've just told me." I nodded and rose. What I didn't realize was that our little 'conversation' had just earned me a one-way ticket to counseling.


	6. A New Outlook

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s): **Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

I made my way across the hall and entered the study, almost certain that I would find Brock and Randy in the middle of another heated debate over how much pressure it would take to break _another_ couch. Luckily, Brock was nowhere to be found. Instead, much to my shock, I found Adam and Randy seated across from each other at the small card table in the rear. It looked like they were in the middle of a round of Black Jack.

Soft music trickled out of the record player in the back of the study. I was certain that it wasn't there when I had come to the study earlier. However, when my Dad and Father had first moved into the house, it had been filled with a lot of antique furniture. A lot of the furniture had been sold in order to fund the construction of a third floor. However, I wouldn't be surprised if that record player had been amidst the other items in the closet.

Randy slammed a card down onto the little table and both men broke down into obsessive peals of laughter. I watched for only a moment, but could feel myself become incredibly disheartened. By now, I had known Randy for almost a week. Adam, on the other hand, had only known him for a few hours, stretched over the period of that week. Yet, it seemed as if Adam was that much closer to Randy. He was where _I_ wanted to be.

Randy looked up from his cards and saw me in the doorway. The side of his mouth curved up into something akin to a smirk and he waved his hand, beckoning me to come inside. "Hey, Johnny. Didn't see you there."

I forced a smile, but I was certain that he could see the truth written clearly in my eyes. "Oh, I was just on my way to the kitchen for a snack. I just saw the door open and heard the music and wondered -,"

"Do you want to come join us, Johnny?" Need I mention that I had never touched a deck of cards in my life? I could bet my soul away and never know the difference. "There's always room for one more."

I looked at the table uneasily. "I don't know how…" I trailed off lamely. A dark blush fanned across my cheeks as I realized that I didn't want to look like a fool in front of Randy.

Adam looked at me sweetly. His face always held a certain innocence, but his eyes, well, they were easily his best asset. "I could always teach you. C'mon, it's easy." He promised me.

"Actually, I need to talk with you, if that's okay?" Adam looked at me uncertainly. He flashed a quick look back at Randy, who waved him off dismissively.

"Sure." Adam folded his cards face-down onto the table and started to walk over to me, before he turned back to Randy with a warning clear in his hazel eyes. "Don't you cheat." Randy raised his hands innocently.

Adam followed me out into the hallway and I closed the door softly behind me. It wouldn't do to have Randy overhear our conversation. It wasn't that I didn't trust him, but mainly that I didn't want to hurt him or offend him somehow. I needed advice from Adam on how to handle this situation with my father. He had known the man for longer than I had. Even if I was understandably closer, there was a unique, undeniable chemistry between them.

I was silent for several minutes, my back to the wall. Adam's eyebrows knitted in concern and he took a step toward me. Stunned, I stumbled backward, or, at least, I _tried_ to move backward. Instead, my head connected with the wall with a loud _thunk_. Stars danced before my eyes and the concern Adam felt toward me visibly increased. I flinched. This wasn't the way that I had foreseen this conversation at all…

Once Adam realized that I wasn't about to speak, he took hold of my shoulder and led me into the kitchen. Forcing me down onto one of the old, tattered bar stools, he started to fix me a root beer float. After he finished, he handed it over. I smiled at him, thankful. He brushed it off as he slid onto the bar stool beside me. For the first time, I realized the blatant height difference between us. He sat a full head, maybe two, above me.

"So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?" He asked, one blond eyebrow raised. I stirred my drink subconsciously and he watched me in a worried sort of way.

"I wanted to talk about my Dad." I told him slowly. Now that I had him alone, I wasn't really sure how to broach the topic. "We had a bit of an… awkward conversation and I wondered if you could…"

"You want me to see if I can talk him out of his funk?" He asked. This wasn't the first time we had had this talk.

I swallowed hard and nodded. Even though my drink was ice-cold, I could feel myself start to overheat. "Yeah. But it may not be so easy this time… he thinks that I want to kill myself."

Adam's hazel eyes blew wide. "What? Johnny, how the _hell_ can you misconstrue something like that?"

I stirred my drink worriedly. "My friend – and I really _do_ mean my friend – is having some issues at home."

All of a sudden, realization dawned in his pretty eyes. "Ahh, that makes sense now. The old 'my friend' that seems to be 'me' but is actually really 'my friend' card. I'll see what I can do."

I smiled and downed the rest of my drink. "Thanks, Adam. I don't know what I'd do without you."

But Adam's face turned solemn and he looked away, suddenly interested in the tile floor. "Hopefully, you'll never have to find out." And then, he stalked off to find my father.

* * *

The rest of the week went by in a blur. An uneventful blur, which I was thankful for, but a blur nonetheless. On Monday, I was back at school. My teachers offered me looks of superficial sympathy, but I knew that they didn't really care. Like I mentioned before, Wade's father had poured thousands and thousands of dollars into this rat-infested dump. So what reason did they have to worry about a weak little boy from a dirt-poor family?

However, I did have one bonus on my side. When I compared my schedule with Randy's before school, I found out that we had almost all of our classes together. He hovered a few inches behind me, a comfortable distance, but close enough that we could still talk like friends would. I knew that we weren't quite 'friends' yet. Somehow, I _knew_ that Randy had had some sort of horrific trauma that had _hurt_ him somehow, and that made it hard for him to trust.

When we _did_ stumble across Wade in the hallway – on our way to lunch – he turned the other way and shuffled off to find his girlfriend, Barbara. He was still bruised and bloody from his unfortunate confrontation with Randy. And even if I felt a little bad about it afterward, I had to smile. This new relationship that I had formed with Randy could be beneficial on both counts. Maybe, after all of this time, I could finally feel safe in my own skin.

"What would you like, sweetheart?" The lunch lady asked from behind the metal buffet table. I looked over the assortment of choices, before I pointed to the chicken parmesan sandwich. "An excellent choice."

Randy was about to take the meatloaf, but I hurriedly shook my head. Cafeteria meatloaf was a one-way ticket to the nurse's office. "I'll have a chicken parmesan sandwich too." She handed us both our meals.

We chose a table over by the windows. The windows overlooked the courtyard, and beyond that, the forest that led into the next town over. I had always wondered what it looked like beyond that forest. Dad often said that we would move there one day, but money had gotten tighter and tighter and that seemed like a distant dream now. I had barely set my lunch on the table before I was attacked by my best, and arguably my only (other than Phil) friend.

Kaitlin threw herself at me and I caught her with ease. Her laugh made me smile. "Johnny! It's been, like, _forever_! How have you been? Wait, no. Don't tell me that. You look _awful_."

I smiled weakly. Kaitlin had never been one to mince words, so if she said I looked awful, then I must really look like shit. "Thanks for that." I sat down at the table and she followed suit. Randy sat across from us awkwardly.

Kaitlin turned to him. "Who is this?"

"Oh, this is Randy. Randy, this is Kaitlin. Randy is a… friend of the family. He just moved to town." I wasn't exactly about to announce that he was an ex-convict in the halfway house.

Kaitlin smiled at him. "Oh, well, it's very nice to meet you. How do you know John's family?"

All of the color drained out of my face, but Randy returned her smile. "It's a distant connection."

Kaitlin seemed to accept that. "Oh. Okay." She started to pick at her lunch, which consisted of nachos and cheese. "I take it you've met his bastard of a brother?"

"Brock? Oh, yes. We've met before."

As if on cue, a scream from the other side of the cafeteria caught our attention. I turned around and saw Wade and one of the teachers, Paul Heyman, in the corner of the room. In their wake, a terrified Layla shivered as icy cold water dripped from her chocolate locks. It soon became apparent that Wade had spit it into her face and Paul Heyman, a close friend of my older brother Brock, had turned a blind eye to it all.

Paul Heyman had once attended Harvard Law and had been a mediocre-at-best lawyer. However, he had been talented enough to keep my asshole of a brother out of jail. I was certain that if some idiot didn't shoot my brother dead on the streets, he would die from the effects of the steroids on his body. Layla, with tears in her brown eyes, ran off to the bathroom to clean herself off. AJ, her close friend, followed after her.

Randy watched the scene unfold distastefully. "Is that _normal_?"

I nodded dimly, before I turned back to my sandwich. Suddenly, I wasn't hungry. "You don't know the half of it."

* * *

"How do you feel, Phil? You better ever since your little freak-out?" I asked softly as I entered into his hospital room. His olivine eyes flickered over to me, before he smiled broadly. I swear he's freaking bipolar.

"Guess who came in to see me today?" His eyes danced, following me over to the chair as I took a seat. I shrugged. "My Dad! He came to tell me that he's sorry about what happened and it won't happen again."

My eyes narrowed on their own accord. "How many times has he said that, Phil? And how many times has that turned out to be a lie?" I didn't mean to be hostile about it, but that was the uncomfortable truth.

"That doesn't matter. It was the truth this time." And he sounded so certain about it it nearly killed me. "He told me that he loves me. Do you know how many times he's told me that? Five times in my entire life."

A certain darkness swirled in his eyes and I could see how much this killed him. In that moment, I knew for certain that he really _had_ considered suicide. "I'm sorry to hear about that…"

Phil laughed darkly. "You sound like you don't really know what to say. That's okay. If I were in your position, I wouldn't really know either. I want to kill myself one day and I'm smiling the next. It isn't normal. I know that."

I stared into his olivine eyes, which had started to clear. "Have you ever considered counseling, Phil?" I asked him weakly. In a sense, it was the same card that my Dad had pulled on me.

"Counseling? No. Never." Phil brushed it off easily.

"Are you -,"

Phil cut me off. _"I don't want to, John! Now fucking drop it!"_

I flinched, but the cold steel in his eyes refused to soften. I swallowed hard and leaned back into my chair, waiting for the tenseness to flow out of his body. It took a few minutes, but finally he leaned back on the pillows and closed his eyes. Since I had just arrived, I didn't want to leave him. I had a feeling that, other than myself and the one time his father had visited him, he didn't have many visitors. So, tension aside, I turned toward the television and reveled in the silence.


	7. The Lie That Started It All

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

I returned home about an hour later, delirious from the confusion that had blossomed around this messy situation. To be brutally honest, I really wasn't sure _what_ to do. Phil was my best friend. Other than Kaitlin, he was really all that I had. And I knew that it was the same for Phil. Over the years, Phil had suffered emotionally and he tended to take that out on those close to him. I was already used to the verbal abuse. And it wasn't even abuse. It was stress relief.

What should I do? No, a better question would be what _could_ I do? Like I said before, Phil was my best friend. To turn my back on that and confess to someone that his father abused him seemed callous, almost. It would make me like all of the others that had pretended to be his friend because of his father. But on the other hand, he wanted to kill himself yesterday and today… he pretended as if he was fine. I don't know _what_ to believe anymore.

One of these days, I'd like to storm down to the studio, throw myself in Mark's face, and show him just how blind he's been all of these years. Often, I wondered if I told him that his son wanted to commit suicide, would he care. Would he laugh in my face and think that I was lying to him? The later seemed much likelier. Mark liked to sweep stuff under the mat. The only problem with that was, eventually, there just won't be enough room.

"I'm home!" I called as I slid out of my sweatshirt and tossed it into the closet. It would be useless to try and hang it up in that mess. "Dad? Where are you?"

All of a sudden, I felt strong arms envelop me from behind and I was pulled into a trembling chest. "Oh my God, John! Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again! You hear me? _Ever_!"

Bewildered, I leaned back to stare into my father's red-rimmed eyes. "I don't understand, Dad. I left a note that said that I wanted to visit Phil after school…"

"No, you didn't! And there was another shooting down by your school! One of the students, I think that his name was Cody, almost had his face blasted off. There are also three dead officers."

"Cody? You mean Cody Runnells?" My Dad nodded. Cody was one of the boys that ran with Wade Barrett. His best friend, Damien Sandow, had connections with an out-of-town weapons dealer.

"Oh God, John. You don't know how _scared_ I was! What if they had killed you too? What would I have done then?" Dad continued to fuss over me. He looked over every inch of me to make sure that I wasn't harmed.

"I could've sworn that I left that note on the kitchen table, like I always do…" I trailed off. Seconds later, I flinched when my Dad's hand brushed over my bruised ribs.

"Lift up your shirt." He commanded in a don't-fuck-with-me tone.

I blinked dumbly. "What?"

"You heard what I said. Now, do it."

Slowly, I peeled off my t-shirt and allowed him to inspect my bruised torso. I still looked like shit from that attack by Wade Barrett, not that I had ever confessed to that to my Dad. As much as the man loved me and my older brother, he could be painfully naïve. He always talked about wanting a better life for us and working hard to achieve that dream, not realizing that I had all that I could want in a father _right now_. But he was never around to be that man.

I think that I lost him the same day that my other father was shot down. Ever since that day, I could see him slowly withdraw. It killed me inside to know that, as his son, I could do nothing about it. I knew that it wasn't my fault and that, truthfully, there was nothing I _could_ do. But that didn't make the truth any easier to bear. My father loved us all to death, but a certain part of him will always be buried with my other father.

With narrow, studious eyes, he inspected every inch of my skin. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, but when his eyes widened and a series of muffled curses fell from between his barely-parted lips, I knew that whatever he discovered wasn't good. His fingers hooked around my bony arm and he yanked me toward the kitchen, where he forced me down onto one of the barstools. And then, he went around to the cabinet where the first-aid kit was.

"You never did tell me what happened at school that caused you to be sent home early that day." My Dad said. He read the instruction labels on a few bottles, before he fixed me a medical cocktail for my injuries.

I stared down at the colorful tiles on the island counter. "I don't want to talk about it."

Suddenly, his hard hazel eyes beat into my body and I found myself bereft of air. "_I_ want to talk about it."

There was no way that I could tell him the truth. Not when I knew how much it would break him. So, I lied. "Brock and I had a little tussle and I ended up on the worse end of it."

Dad raised an eyebrow, but continued to search in the freezer for the ice-cube tray. Once he found it, he cracked some into a Ziploc bag and handed it to me so that I could put it on my ribs. "What did he do to you?"

"We're the only two that have bedrooms on the second floor, so we have to share one bathroom. I guess I took too much time, because when I came out, he…" here, I broke as I tried to think up a lie, "…tossed me down the stairs."

Dad's eyes widened. He had bought into it hook, line, and sinker. "He did _what_?" He asked coldly.

I gulped, unable to meet his dark, twisted eyes. "He tossed me down the stairs."

Luckily for me, Adam chose that moment to come in the back door. His silky blond hair was tied up behind his head in a loose bun and he was shirtless, most likely from roughing around with the other boys around back. He shot a warm smile at my father who returned it, albeit a bit begrudgingly. Adam looked to me, confused. In a swift motion, I told him to drop the matter. Thankfully, he did just that.

Dad turned around, lifted the cold, metal first-aid kit off of the counter, and shoved it into Adam's chest with enough force to make the tall blond stumble back a few steps. He tried to feign a look of hurt, but I could tell from the not-so-subtle flicker of emotion in his own hazel eyes that it was more than true. Dad, however, failed to notice. Instead, he shoved Adam out of the way and stormed upstairs in search of my older brother.

Adam tried to shake it off and turned to me with a faux smile. "What crawled up his ass and died?"

I swallowed hard and smiled nervously. "I think that I may have signed Brock's death warrant." And then, softer this time, "And my own as well."

* * *

In an attempt to avoid Brock for the rest of the day, I stuck around the third floor. The third floor, being the newest addition to the halfway house (at only fifteen-years-old, it was still relatively new), was not in such a horrid state of disarray. Sure, near the end of the hallway, there was a particularly tricky patch of wet wood that would give way under the weight of a normal human male… but other than that, it was rather like a safe-haven.

I really had no destination, so how I found myself outside of Randy's bedroom, I have no idea. And the reason I slid inside still eludes me to this day. But I did. I slid inside and allowed the door to close softly behind me. Immediately, I was bombarded by the darkness. Only a single rotating lamp on his bedside table provided light. In shone on his trembling form and for one moment, I wondered what it was that he was doing. And then I realized he was crying.

Entranced, I found that I had to move closer. I had to find out what had caused such a perfect being to fall victim to something so heart wrenching as sadness. As I moved closer to him, I found myself peering over his shoulder. I felt awful for it, because it was his business and who was I to interfere in his personal business, but I found myself doing so anyhow. It was a photo of his parents, or those who I assumed were his parents.

The man was tall with a dark tan, warm blue eyes, and a kind smile. His black cowboy hat was drawn low over his eyes. He had his arm around the woman's shoulders. Chocolate brown curls tumbled over her lithe shoulders and warm, teal eyes peered out from beneath lengthy coal lashes. Her hands rested on a younger Randy's shoulders. An inscription at the bottom read Bob Orton – 1960-2002, Suzanna Orton – 1973-2002.

"I know that you're in here, John." Randy said. He set the photo down on his bedside table and rolled over so that he could face me. "You weren't exactly subtle, you know."

I forced a small smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. It's just… I'm kinda hiding out from my brother." Randy nodded sympathetically and I had no doubt that he had heard the whole story by now.

"I heard. Your father was kinda mad. He said something about Brock throwing you down the stairs?" I nodded, ashamed. "Anyhow, Brock threw a bitch fit and threw a beer bottle at your Dad. He called the cops."

My eyes widened. "Brock's in jail?"

Randy nodded. "Only for the night. God only knows what'll happen to him if he's in for longer than that."

I swallowed hard and looked down. "It sucks. And it's my fault."

"Why would you say that?"

"Brock didn't really push me down the stairs." I bit down on my lower lip. "I couldn't tell my Dad that Wade tried to rape me, so when he found out that I had bruised my ribs, I told him the lie about Brock."

Randy didn't look disturbed in the slightest. "I have a newfound respect for you, kid. Don't worry yourself too much about Brock. He can take care of himself. And trust me when I say that this stint in jail was a longtime coming."

I tried to convince myself that that was the truth, but it was hard. Even if he was an asshole, he was still my older brother. And after all of the abuse that he had dealt me over the years, I have to admit that I still love him. I'm stuck with him – I'm pretty sure that my father will never remarry, so he's the only brother that I'll ever have. I don't want to waste that just because of a selfish lie.

Randy seemed to notice my predicament and rolled over in bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard. He patted the area beside him and I came and sat down with him. Feeling compelled to do so, I leaned over and rested my head on his shoulder. Slowly, his fingers came up to stroke over my short brown locks. His eyes flickered downward momentarily and he took in the bruise on my ribs, before they met my eyes.

"It'll be okay, Johnny." He told me with such sincerity, I had no choice but to believe him. "When he comes back home, I promise that he will never lay another finger on you. Okay?"

I wanted to ask him about the picture, but I found that the only word that I could form was, "Okay."


	8. The Fight With Brock

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

I awoke a few hours later to a knock on the door. It took me several minutes to remember where I was, let alone the fact that I had fallen asleep in Randy's bed… let alone in Randy's arms. "Wakey-Wakey lovebirds."

It took me to a minute to realize that it was Adam's silhouette in the doorway. "God, Adam. You scared me half to death!" Carefully, I rolled off of Randy and stumbled to my feet. "How did you find me?"

"Well, that was easy, really. Brock came home a little under an hour ago. He destroyed the whole first floor and locked himself in his bedroom. I just made the assumption that you would be where he wasn't."

"Well, you found me." I raised my hands in symbolic defeat. "What do you need me for?" When his eyes fluttered and his true emotions hid behind shutters of darkness, I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer. "Well?"

"Hunter wants Brock to apologize to you. And since he can't manage to get Brock out of his room without having to call the cops a second time, he wants _you_ to head down there and initiate it."

"He can't be serious!" I screamed, but immediately clamped a hand over my mouth. Hesitantly, I turned around, thankful to find Randy still lost in his own little dream world.

"Oh, but he is. Very… very serious." Those shutters locked tight and Adam looked away, daintily brushing his soft blond tresses behind his ear.

"Did he yell at you?" I asked hesitantly.

Adam forced a smile. "Let's not go there, huh? Just go down and see Brock. Get it over with."

I swallowed hard. "If that's… If that's what he wants, then I'll do it."

"Good luck, kiddo."

Often, I wondered if Adam knew more than he let on. He tended to act naïve toward matters of the heart, but I knew for a fact that he had more than a little bit of a crush on my father. He would never act on it, though. His heart still belonged to the soldier overseas. But I could still see the effects of my father's cold attitude in his eyes. My father had never been so cruel to him as when he thrust that metal first-aid kit into his stomach and walked away without a word.

He also knew about Brock's addiction to steroids. It wasn't like there was a damn thing he could do about it, but he was another person who _knew_ about it and that was enough for me. Adam knew that it was unsafe for me to be alone with him, but what could he do? It was what my father wanted. And, like most other things, my father was oblivious to how dangerous of a man my older brother truly was. But Adam knew. Adam knew and he worried for me.

But I couldn't wait forever. I had to face the music sometime. I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs, pausing just outside of Brock's door. It wasn't difficult to hear him pounding his fists into the malleable walls. Once, I had seen him put his fist through drywall without breaking a sweat. When his girlfriend had broken up with him, he put his fist through the bathroom mirror and broke two knuckles. He didn't feel a thing.

Gathering all of the courage I could muster, I knocked on the door. "Brock? It's me, John. Are you in there? I think that we need to talk." It was such a stupid comment, but one that needed to be said.

The door swung open and Brock hooked his monstrous hand around my neck, throwing me inside and slamming the door closed behind me. "You little fucking _bitch_. You think we need to talk? Really? Because I don't."

Fear spread like ice through my veins. Immediately, I knew what it was that he intended to do. "Brock, you don't have to do this. I'm sorry that I lied to Dad -,"

"Oh, you're gonna be a lot more than sorry by the time that I'm through with you, you little cocksucker. Now, get down on the bed and _strip_." Brock's tone left no room for questioning.

"No." I swallowed down my fear and spit the words into his face.

"What was that, you little bitch?" He asked me.

"You can't… You can't do this to me anymore, Brock. I don't like it. It's… It's wrong." I said.

"It's _wrong_? Let me explain something to you, Johnny. The only thing that's _wrong_ in this family is _you_. You want to know why nobody cares about you, Johnny? It's because, when you were born -,"

"Stop it!" I screamed, but it was too late.

"It's because, when you were born, you tore up our Dad so badly he _couldn't have any more children_. You _destroyed_ him, Johnny. They never loved you, John. Whenever they looked at you, all they could see was _disappointment_."

In some sick way, in my fragile state of mind, all of this made sense. My stomach rolled and all of the fight went out of me as Brock took me by the neck and forced me face down onto the bed. Sliding out of his belt with his free hand, he looped it around the metal headboard and fastened me there. Terror had made my body freeze. I was unsure about what to do, but I knew for a fact that, in a battle of strength, there was no way I could beat my steroid crazed brother.

I screamed, but it was muffled by the pillow beneath my head. Brock started to work off my shorts and boxers, throwing them onto the floor as he worked off his own pants and underwear. I kicked at him blindly, but with the stress on my upper torso, all it did was wear down my shoulders. Tears leaked from my eyes as his hands fondled my ass. When he lined up with my entrance, without preparation, I screamed a second time.

"Please, Brock… Please, you don't have to do this!" I exclaimed brokenly. But my efforts were in vain when he slammed into me, tearing me so brutally I immediately felt blood slosh onto my legs. "RANDY!"

"What? You think that your little boyfriend will save you now? Please. You're just as much of a disappointment to him as you were to our parents. He'd rather watch you die than save you now."

I didn't want to believe him, but, like always, he knew the right buttons to push to break me down. Still, I continued to scream and try to break away from him. "RANDY! RANDY!"

He started to move inside of me and I had never felt more disgusted with myself. This wasn't natural. He was my brother and I loved him as my brother, but he hated me enough to be able to continue to do this even as I begged him to stop. I barely even heard the door slam open, but I _did_ notice Brock pull out, cursing wildly as he yanked a gun out from under the pillow where my head rested. He shot once. It was only then that I saw who had come inside.

"Adam!" I tried to roll out from beneath Brock, but the belt held me in place.

"Shut _up_, you little freak!" Brock yelled, before he slammed the butt of the gun into my forehead. Stars danced behind my eyes and red blood oozed from my wound.

Randy charged down the hall then, looking between my broken body on the bed and Adam's wounded body on the floor. "What the fuck happened in here? Brock… put the gun down."

"And why the fuck should I listen to one word out of your mouth? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your head?" Brock hissed.

"Randy…" I slurred, thankful that he had kept his promise to me.

"Are you _scared_ of me, Randy? All of those big words, they all went out the window, didn't they?" Brock smirked.

"Don't be stupid, Randy." Adam slurred. In my pained haze, I could see the blood that slowly trickled from the corner of his mouth. I was scared for him and his little girl. "Go downstairs and get Hunter. Tell him to call the cops."

"No. _You don't move_." And then, he narrowed his eyes at Adam. "And you. You shut your trap before I shut it for you. I'm sure you wouldn't want that precious daughter of yours to have to spoon-feed you for the rest of your life."

I started to work the leather belt against the metal bars, hoping against hope that the metal latch would slide out of the loop and the belt would fall away. But it didn't work. Instead, I was forced to watch as another shot was fired. This one, luckily, was just a warning and landed a few centimeters above Adam's head. Adam let out a startled little cry and rolled out of the way. Blood stained the wall where his shoulder used to be.

Randy didn't want to wait for someone else to be hurt. He charged at Brock, knocking my older brother off of the bed. The gun fell beside my feet. Brock's head cracked on the floor and his eyes rolled back in his head. A small pool of blood appeared behind his head. It was almost terrifying, the way that he stared into oblivion. But Randy didn't look perturbed in the least. He rose from where he had fallen to his knees beside Brock and brushed his hands off.

Turning back to me, he helped me back into my boxers and my shorts. Carefully, he undid the belt and tossed it to the floor over Brock's motionless, lifeless body. Rubbing circulation back into my wrists with a tenderness I did not know he possessed, he looked at Adam concernedly. The older boy was still awake, but only barely. The bullet had clipped his shoulder and he was bleeding profusely. I was extremely worried about him.

"John?" When he turned to me, I nearly jumped out of my skin. He leaned forward, brushing his lips over my forehead to soothe me. "I need you to run downstairs and call an ambulance, and then I want you to tell your father about this."

I nodded, feeling the fear set in as Adam's eyes fluttered closed and his head lolled to the side. "Okay. You'll make sure that Adam is okay?" I asked him.

"Yeah. I'll keep an eye on him. Just hurry, okay? I'm not sure how long he'll last." Randy told me. He cast one last look down at Brock, before he went over to assist Adam.

Ignoring the pain that had blossomed in my lower back, I rushed downstairs to do as Randy had told me. Most likely, my father would be in his study. Thankfully, he was there. When he saw my bloodied state, he immediately set his work aside and rose from his chair. There was a silencer on Brock's gun, so it was easy to assume that he hadn't heard a bit of what had happened upstairs. Breathing heavily, I tried to recount the events.

"We need to… to call an ambulance. Adam's been… Adam's been shot." He already had the phone in his hand, 911 already dialed. But then, he shot me an odd look.

"John." His voice was eerily calm. "Who shot Adam?"

"Brock! He… He was hurting me and I screamed and Adam came. Then, Brock took this gun out from under his pillow and shot him in the shoulder! We need to call an ambulance, we can't waste anymore time!"

Without wasting any more time, my father was on the phone with the paramedics. He told them our location and what had transpired. Noticing that I was bloody as well, he told the dispatcher that there had been three people injured. By the time that he finished the call, the full delirium from the blood loss finally hit. He barely had the time to walk forward and extend his arms before I tumbled forward, unconscious.


	9. Randy's Story

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, Past Self-Harm, etc.

* * *

I awoke three hours later to find myself in an uncomfortable bed with stark white sheets. The blanket that was over my lithe body was thinner then paper, but when I realized my current state of dress, I was thankful for it nonetheless. Almost entirely naked save for the wispy cloth that the hospital tried to call 'underwear' and a blue and white gown that didn't quite close in the back; I couldn't help but feel as if I were exposed to the world.

I was startled out of my silent reverie by sobs that came from the side of my bed. My Dad had claimed the seat beside me, a look of utter devastation on his handsome face as he cried over my unconscious body. I could sympathize with him. If I were in his position, I would feel helpless, lost and confused and unaware of how to help my son. And now, _both_ of his sons were hurt and in the hospital and he didn't know why.

"Johnny? Are you awake?" He croaked out. His voice was hoarse and I had to wonder how long he had been crying. How many unfortunate doctors and nurses were told off while I was unconscious?

"Yeah, I'm awake." I swallowed hard. I had never had oxygen tubes before and I found that they were extremely uncomfortable. "What… What happened? Why am I… Why are _we_ here?"

"I honestly don't know, Johnny. You came into my office in hysterics, telling me that Brock had shot Adam and Randy had tackled Brock… I called an ambulance, but by the time I was off the phone, you had fainted."

Of course, I remembered all of this quite clearly. I just had to know how much of this he already knew. "Have I been checked out by the doctor?" He nodded. "What did they say?"

More tears leaked from his hazel eyes as he stared down at the paper-thin blanket. "The doctor said that your… um… you had been _torn_ and had lost a lot of blood. He wanted to run a rape kit. God, Johnny, why…"

I shook my head hurriedly. I couldn't let his brain travel down that path. It was dangerous and I had no idea as to where it might lead him. "I wasn't raped, Dad."

He looked into my eyes. Hope shimmered in his. He so desperately wanted my words to be the truth and it killed me to lie to him like this. "Then why would you…"

"Experimentation." I coughed the word out. Why did this have to be so embarrassing? Why couldn't I just suck it up and tell him the truth? "My boyfriend and I -,"

Here, he cut me off. "Your _boyfriend_ did this to you?" He looked ready to kill the non-existent boy.

_He got over the fact that I have a boyfriend real fast_, I thought blandly. "It was a mutual thing, Dad."

I really didn't want to talk about this anymore. It was one thing to talk to your father about your sex-life, but it was a completely different matter when you didn't have a sex life at _all_ and were only telling him this so that he wouldn't know that you had been raped by your older brother. Why was it so much easier to lie than to tell the truth? At that point, I wasn't even sure if _I_ remembered what the truth was. It had become terribly skewed over the years…

In the back of my mind, I could hear each shot as it rang out in the silence. I could see the bullet slice into Adam's delicate flesh, hear Brock threaten him with his own daughter, his flesh and blood. Tears bubbled in my eyes. I wanted Randy… Kaitlin… hell, even _Phil_. I just needed someone there to tell me that it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault that my brother abused me. It wasn't my fault that Mark and Wade and the other boys at the house hurt me.

And as I looked into my father's eyes, I knew that he could see my lies. For the first time since _the first time_, he had called my bluff. Randy was the only other witness who wasn't severely wounded and I knew that he wouldn't utter a word about it without my consent. There was an unspoken pact between us. We had bonded that night when I hid in his room. What we shared now was friendship. And he needed a friend just as much as I did.

"How is Brock?" I asked after several moments of silence. I just couldn't deal with it anymore.

My Dad looked up, startled at the sound. After a minute, he calmed himself down. "Brock is… well…" here, he laughed bitterly. "He's alive. Brock is… alive."

"That good, huh?" No matter how much I hated the older boy, I still felt fear rise within me.

"He's on life-support, John. The crack to the skull knocked him out cold, rattled his brain around. The cat-scan actually revealed that it bruised his brain, which means that there is internal bleeding."

"But… he'll live, won't he?" I asked, suddenly worried.

Dad stared into my eyes. His hazel orbs were dead. "I don't know."

"What is the treatment for internal bleeding in the head, anyhow?"

Dad explained to me that he would have to have his hair shaved off and holes would be drilled into his skull to relieve the pressure. But even that, the doctor had said, was risky business. Most likely, even if they were able to calm the swelling and stop the internal bleeding, Brock would still have a serious brain injury. There was no way to tell until after the operation. And after he had recovered, the intent was to ship him off to jail.

"When they ran the blood tests, which they did for each of you when you came in, they discovered steroids in your brother's system. Enough to kill him. That, combined with the assault on Adam, is enough to put him behind bars."

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Dad looked up, mildly amused by my apology.

"What are you sorry for? Did you shove the needle into his arm?" He asked.

I shook my head. "No, but I was the one who made him mad." I looked down at the blanket. "I'm not… I don't want to talk about it. Not right now. But when I'm ready, I promise, you'll be the first one to know."

"I hope that that's the truth, Johnny." He said.

I nodded. "It is."

"Good." He rubbed my shoulder comfortingly. "I want you to get some rest, okay kiddo? I promise that I'll be here when you wake up." His gentle smile reassured me, but I frowned.

"No. Didn't you say that Adam's in surgery?" He nodded. "I want you to go and sit with him. His husband is overseas and he doesn't have anybody to pull through for. I'm sure your presence would be greatly appreciated."

A soft flush colored his tanned cheeks. "You think so, son?"

I nodded. "I know so."

It took another minute or so, but finally he rose out of his chair, leaned down, and kissed me on the forehead. I smiled, watching him as he left. That had been far too close of a call. I didn't like to lie to him. Hell, it nearly killed me to do it. But I knew that, right now, it was for the greater good. If he found out that Brock had raped me, it would destroy him. And right now, he had a duty to be strong for all of those that were in his care…

* * *

I woke up two hours later to find that I had another visitor. This time, it was Randy. He leaned back in his chair, his muddy military-style boots on the foot of the bed. He had a book in his hands. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was the first-edition _Alice in Wonderland_ from our library back at home. He looked over each page with reverent awe. His hand smoothed over the crinkled yellow paper as he drank in every word. It was breathtaking.

He was so engrossed in his own little world that he didn't even realize that I was staring. Or maybe he did and simply didn't mind. Either way, I found myself no less than enthralled by the way his mouth moved with each word, each syllable, each letter. My heart fluttered in my chest, echoed by the slight acceleration of _beeps_ from the heart monitor. Randy smirked. So he _had_ realized that I was staring.

With a laid-back smirk, he set the book on the bedside table and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. His dark blue eyes scanned over my body, looking for any more injuries to punish Brock for. I had to credit myself. For all of the times that I had been wounded by others, I have to say that my body always healed very nicely. Now, nearly five hours after the incident, all that remained was an awful soreness that would last a few days…

"When you came into my room the other day, you saw that I was looking at a picture. I could see the wheels turning in your head. You knew that that was a picture of my parents, but didn't want to ask. Isn't that true?"

I frowned. Coming with someone with family issues of their own, I could see how difficult this was for him to do. "If you're not ready to confront the demons, Randy, I understand. There's no need to force it…"

Randy chuckled blandly. There was no amusement behind it. "Confront the demons? All of my demons are dead." He looked down at the ground. "The only demon left to face is the Grim Reaper himself."

I felt my heart rate accelerate for an entirely different reason now. "You're not planning to… you know… end it, are you?" I don't think I could handle the two people closest to me wanting to kill themselves.

Randy shook his head. Taking his left hand out from behind his head, he rolled up his other sleeve and revealed a nasty scar. "I tried that once. It didn't work out too well."

"I'm so sorry…" I trailed off, uncertain of what else to say.

"Don't be. It's a reminder that I'm here for a reason. I wouldn't have lived otherwise."

Suddenly, I could see him there. Lying on the floor of his bedroom, or maybe even in his jail cell, blood everywhere. How did he do it? It wasn't like prisoners were allowed to keep knives in their cells, after all. And then, staring down at it once more, I was able to piece the bloody puzzle together. He had taken his wrist and impaled it on the end of his metal bunk bed. It was just the right size and shape to cause that sort of scar.

Randy smiled dryly. "I take it you figured it out, huh?" I nodded slowly, terrified. "Now you know why I won't be trying _that_ again." How much rage did it take to put such a blunt object through his skin?

I was hesitant to even ask, but I knew that I had to. "What does this have to do with your parents?"

"A better question would be, what _doesn't_ this have to do with them." Randy smiled ruefully. "My parents overdosed on cocaine when I was five. I found them in the dining room, a needle still in my Dad's arm."

I choked back a sob, wondering why he was telling this to me. "R-Randy?"

He rose out of his chair, patting me on the shoulder. "I just mean to say, don't be so hard on the old man. He may be daft on occasion, but at least he cares enough about you to stick around…"

"W-What?" But before I could say another word, Randy had walked out of the room.


	10. Death

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

After a few days, it was determined that Brock would live. I can't say that I was thrilled about the news, because he would still be out there and it terrified me to no end to think that, even from jail, he could still mess with my head. On the other hand, I wasn't disappointed either. Even if he was an abusive bastard, _he was still my brother._ At the end of the day, blood is thicker than water. Family will stick by you and defend you, even in the worst of circumstances. And that fact made my father's life _hell_.

From what little my father could collect from Randy and I, he knew that Adam had been innocent. He didn't have any form of weapon on him, hadn't threatened Brock in any way, or anything like that. So, in a sense, I suppose that he knew that Brock was guilty. But, at the same time, a father never wants to think that his son is capable of shooting a man for no reason at all. Apparently, Dad hadn't even known that Brock owned a firearm. As it turned out, there was _a lot_ that he didn't know about Brock…

* * *

"I feel like I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays!" Phil motioned to the chair beside his bed. I slid into it easily, thankful that I didn't have to be on my feet anymore. "How have you been? Believe me when I say that you look like _shit_, Johnny."

I offered an awkward smile. He certainly did know a hundred and one ways to make a man feel shitty about himself. "I've been better. This is only my second day home after a three day stay in the hospital, so…" I trailed off.

Phil's look melted into one of concern. "You were in the hospital?" I nodded. "What for?" How could I tell him? How could I tell him the truth when I couldn't even tell it to my own father?

"My boyfriend and I had tried some stuff… you know, in the bedroom… and it didn't end too well. I was out cold when I was brought to the hospital and Dad said that they wanted to run a rape kit." I lied fluidly. It was like the lie had become the truth.

"That sucks man." Phil's look of sympathy turned into one of amusement. "Since when do you have a boyfriend? I was just beginning to think that you would spend the rest of your life as an old cat lady, too!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you kinda need to be a _lady_ to be an old cat _lady_? It's even in the name, man." We both broke down into fits of laughter, and I was reminded of the good times, before his mania kicked in and made itself at home.

"You're close enough." Phil said with a smirk. "I mean, what with the slight build, your bubble ass, and your curves… are you sure you're not a girl and you have just been lying this whole time?"

Before I could stop it, an obnoxious chuckle left my body. "I think that I would be the first one to know, don't you?" Phil shrugged, mumbling something like 'anything is possible' under his breath.

We settled into a comfortable silence after that. I leaned back in the chair, putting my feet on the little shelf underneath Phil's bed. The objective was to take some of the pressure off of my lower back, but it didn't work too well. According to the x-rays that they took at the hospital, my lower back and hips had been most affected by Brock's brutal attack. Because of the steroids he had just taken, he was stronger and, in one of his brutal acts, had bruised my lower spine. It hurt like hell, but I didn't want Phil to see the pain that I was in.

Not that Phil would have noticed, anyhow. He had had one of the nurses go down to the cafeteria and buy him a diet Pepsi, which he now nursed as he watched the crappy daytime reality shows. There wasn't much on, after all. The hospital received four channels and most of them were news oriented. And after another gang attack in the downtown district had claimed the lives of two cops and one of the halfway decent men that had come out of my Dad's halfway house, neither of us were in the mood to watch the news.

But I wasn't really interested in the latest gossip and melodrama of his stars. Instead, I allowed my mind to wander to the conversation that I had had with Randy back at the hospital. He had all but come right out and say that his parents had ruined his life. They were addicted to illegal drugs and didn't hesitate to drag him into the mess by leaving their bodies behind for him to find. And I couldn't help but wonder if the mental abuse that Phil endured at the hands of his father wasn't unlike that.

"Hey, Phil?" John asked after several minutes of tense silence. It took Phil a minute to shake his attention away from the show, but once he did, he offered John a small smile. "Have you heard from your father recently?"

And then, that smile fell. "No. I haven't heard from him in three days or so. Why do you want to know?" He hissed darkly. John knew that the mention of Phil's father was a tentative subject. He had to tread lightly.

"I haven't heard from my father in a while, either. Granted, our circumstances are a little different. I just wanted to know for information. Don't slit my throat for it." Now, it was my turn to be the one that was insulted.

Phil turned his head and stared out the window for a moment. "No, I haven't heard from my old man. He was actually supposed to come today, but he called at the last minute and canceled. Said he had urgent business at the school."

Immediately calming down, I touched a hand to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Phil. Nobody deserves that." I told him tenderly. "Is there… um… anything that I can do?" I didn't want to send him into another suicidal rant.

Phil shook his head, forcing a small smile. "Nah. Just showing up is enough." The smile turned more sincere as he turned back to the TV.

I had thought that the conversation would end there. Hell, I _prayed_ that the conversation would end there. But it didn't. Knowing Phil, I don't know why I ever hoped that the conversation would be as simple as that. Phil's eyes lowered from the television screen and stared down at the tatters of the blanket draped over his still-recovering body. He had told me over the phone that he could expect to be in the hospital for another two to three weeks so that they could monitor how fast he was healing, if he was healing at all.

It was times like these when a kid really needed his father. But, like always, Phil's father was off doing things that were, in his eyes, more important than his own son. Really, I didn't understand why he put up with it. And then I realized that it was like me putting up with Brock, or Randy still loving his parents, even after they had practically killed themselves in front of him. You loved them because you didn't have a _choice_. They were family, and blood would always be thicker than water.

"So," Phil started after another minute of silence. "You didn't tell me what rock your father crawled under."

"Oh," I shifted awkwardly in my seat. "He's been locked in his study for the last three days. He won't come to the kitchen for any of the meals. He hasn't said a word to any of the residents. Or me." I added as an afterthought. "I'm really worried about him."

Phil nodded, telling me without words that my fear was totally justified. Dad had never acted like this before, at least that I could remember. "Why don't you ask Adam about it? Doesn't he usually hang off of your father like a second skin?"

Tears bubbled in my eyes, but I refused to allow him to see them. "I… I can't. I haven't heard from Adam either."

The other boy looked confused now. "Why? Did they have a fight or something?"

"No. Adam was… he was shot. I haven't seen him since he was carried out by the EMTs."

"Well, I would say that that is the best place to start." Phil offered. "Go and talk with him, if he's in any condition to talk. See what he can tell you." He said.

I nodded, wondering why I hadn't thought of that myself. "Okay." I carefully rose out of the chair. My body was still incredibly battered. "You take care of yourself, okay? Your Dad will come around." But I sincerely doubted that he would.

"I will." He waved half-heartedly. "Bye."

"Bye." I said, before I closed the door.

* * *

I finally arrived at Adam's flat two hours later. He lived in the better part of town, away from all of the gang fights, drug outlets, and shoot outs. And yet, for some reason, he still managed to make his daily voyages to the halfway house to visit with my father and the other residents. I used to think that it was because he was lonely, what with the fact that his husband was overseas and all. But then, when I saw the way that Adam looked at my father, I knew the real reason behind it. It was because he loved him, and he loved me too.

That was why I knew that I owed this to him. I don't know how many times Adam had nursed me back to health after I had been attacked, or, more importantly than that, kept the secret for me. If it weren't for Adam, I could very well be dead today. I knocked on the door. There was no answer. Testing the knob, I found that it was unlocked. I knew that Adam wouldn't mind if I let myself inside, so I slid into the warmth of the apartment, toed off my shoes, and closed the door softly behind me.

The sight that I saw shocked me to no end. Adam was curled on the couch in his pajamas, his long blond hair fanning over his shoulders and sticking to his face where the tears had acted like glue. There was a pillow clutched to his chest, with dots of blood on it from where he had crushed it against his wounds. He didn't even seem to notice the pain, however. The manic look in his eyes told of mental anguish as he sobbed, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the letter on the floor next to the couch.

"Adam?" I knew that I had to tread tentatively. Adam had one hell of a wicked arm and, even with a bullet hole in his chest, could knock me out with one clean shot. "It's me, Johnny. Are you okay?"

Adam forced a little smile and tried to calm his breathing, but it only made him sound as if he were on the brink of hyperventilation. "Oh, hey Johnny. What brings you here? Shouldn't you be in school?"

I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was Saturday. He seemed so delicate right now. "I wanted to come see you. Dad told me that they had released you from the hospital yesterday. I wanted to make sure that you were okay."

Adam scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Oh, yeah, I'm just fucking peachy." And then his eyes widened. "Sorry about the language, kid." He sniffled and stared back into oblivion.

"It's okay. I've heard worse." I said. "Where's your daughter?"

"She's over with Lita. She agreed to watch her while I heal. I can't handle a three-year-old like this." Adam confessed.

I watched him warily. "What's on the letter, Adam?"

Adam bit down on his lower lip, which was crusted with dried blood. He looked away nervously. "Nothing."

"Is it the reason that you're so upset?" I asked.

He choked back a sob and buried his face in the pillow. I knew that he didn't want me to view him as weak, but this was important. If it had him this upset, then it could be detrimental to his health. "Y-Yes." He sobbed out.

"Then it isn't 'nothing'."

_Dear Adam,_

_This is, quite possibly, the last letter than you will receive from me. The doctor was unable to remove the bullet from my lung, and they attempt to make me more comfortable as I wait for the end. When asked if I could come home and spend my final hours with you, they said that I wouldn't survive the trip. So, this is the closest that I have to that final wish. Each breath that I draw is a painful struggle. But I am determined to finish this letter, as these may be the last words that I'm ever able to say to you._

_I miss the two of you so much. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of your beautiful faces. But I rest comfortably in the knowledge that you'll find someone else to take care of you. Never doubt that I loved you, Adam. Never doubt that I always will. But you deserve to find someone to make you happy. If you mourn me forever, you'll strip yourself of the right to be happy. And I don't want that for you, Adam. All I've ever wanted was to put a smile on your face. Please, find someone who can do that for you._

_And as for our precious baby, please remind her every day how much I love her. I'll always be there to watch over the both of you, but maybe in a different form this time. It's getting too painful to write now. I can feel the blood filling my lung. I need to sleep now, and I don't know if I'll awaken. So, I'll leave you with this. I love you, Adam. I always have. I didn't believe in love at first sight until I met you. And if you're the last face I see, you and our precious baby girl, then I'm okay with that…_

_I love you,_

_Jeff_

"The… the soldier came this morning… to tell me that he had died yesterday. He had said that he would have wanted me to have… the letter." Adam broke down into another fit of sobs, blood seeping into his shirt from his chest.

Immediately, I was down at his side. He didn't need to lose any more blood. "Shh, calm down. It's okay, Addy. Take a deep breath, no more tears, okay? If you keep on like this, you'll bleed out. And your daughter needs you."

"I don't _want_ to find someone else! I want Jeff back!" Adam screamed, about to hit himself in the chest and totally destroy his stitches.

Not knowing what else to do, I slapped his across the face. "Adam! Would you shut the hell up and listen to me for a second?"

Adam's sobs ceased and he stared at me in bewildered wonder. "You… You just _hit_ me." He said slowly.

"Yes. I did. I'm not happy about it, but it was the only way that I could get you to listen to me." I hissed. "Now, Jeff loved you just as much as you loved him. He wouldn't want you to sit here and kill yourself by tearing out your stitches and bleeding to death."

Adam let out a choked sob, but calmed down a little bit. "What… What do I do now?"

I hated the look of absolute hopelessness in his eyes. "Well, first, you let me clean your bandages. You look like shit, man."

Adam offered a wry smile. "Thanks for that."

I chuckled. "No problem."

I washed my hands and slid on a clean pair of gloves, before I took the medical supplies back into the living room. I had to cut off his shirt, because it was soaked in blood and stuck to his skin and he didn't have the range of motion required to remove it otherwise. Carefully, I peeled off the gauze that covered his stiches and threw it into the trashcan. He was incredibly bloody, so I cleaned him with a cotton ball that was wet with alcohol. Once the area was clean, I taped a fresh bandage onto his chest.

He seemed a little cold, so I brought him down a fresh shirt. He had calmed down considerably, so I was pretty sure he wasn't gonna inflict anymore pain on himself. While I may not know exactly how he felt, I knew what it meant to lose someone close to you. He was extremely grateful and even had a small smile on his face at the end of it all. When I asked him if he needed anything, he said no. But at the same time, he was extremely reluctant for me to leave. I could clearly see that he was lonely.

"How about this? As soon as I'm back on speaking terms with my father, I'll send him out here and you two can have some 'man time', or whatever it is that you call it?" I offered.

Adam looked concerned. "You had a falling out with your father?" He asked. My heart sank. I really didn't want to talk about this again. "What happened?" He continued on.

I shook my head. "It's a long story. I'll tell you later. But does that sound like a plan?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. I could tell that he still wanted the rest of the story. "Yeah. I'd like that."


	11. No Trial, No Blood

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Crime, Non-Con, etc.

* * *

I arrived home to silence, which in itself was unusual. It only took me a few minutes to remember that Brock was behind bars and wasn't a concern of mine anymore, and wouldn't be for quite some time. I barely took note of the fact that my father's car wasn't in the driveway. It didn't upset me all that much. Ever since my Dad had found out about Brock shooting Adam, he had been nearly inconsolable. And, as it would seem, the last person that he wanted to be around was his other son. I wasn't his 'baby boy' anymore.

I unbuttoned my coat and slid it into the coat closet, before I blindly made my way toward the staircase. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I barely noticed someone was making their way down the stairs at the same time, and by the time that I _did_ realize it, it was far too late to avoid a collision. My face hit the middle of a broad chest, scarcely covered in a blue muscle shirt. An array of curses could be heard above my head, and when I tilted my head back, I saw the irate face of none other than Dave Batista.

"You better watch where you're going, you little fucking twerp!" His meaty hand clenched my forehead and squeezed. He seemed thrilled when I swooned, black dots dancing before my eyes. It hurt so _badly_.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Dave. I honestly didn't see you there." Oh, like that one would fly. You would have to be blind to not see an animal like Dave. "I'll be more careful next time, I swear."

Dave didn't look convinced. "Or maybe I should make sure that there _isn't_ a next time." His grin was borderline sadistic. His nails dug into my forehead as he tossed me aside like trash. I skidded across the floor and stopped only when my back hit the railing of the staircase.

"Please, don't." Dave's fist swung out and connected with the side of my face. I could feel it start to swell and purple. "I c-can… I know how to defend myself." And it was true, I did. I would be almost lethal if my opponent were a fly.

"You think that you can take me on? I'd like to see you try." Dave offered. He took hold of my wrist, yanking me to my feet. When I wobbled, still delirious with pain from his last strike, he chuckled. "Or did big-bad Brock fuck you up too badly?"

That was the last straw. I wouldn't have anyone talk down about me when it came with what I had to live with. It wasn't my fault, damn it! He reached forward to land another strike to my jaw, but I twisted out of the way and watched as he stumbled forward. There were some perks to my small stature, however few and far between they may have been. Cursing under his breath, he meant to kick me, but I reversed the move and his knee got strung up on the railing. He howled like a werewolf mesmerized by the full moon.

After that, I managed a sloppy head scissor that sent him spiraling into a nearby wall. His shoulder left a nice dent, which would add to the collection of cracks, scratches, and holes in the walls of this run-down facility. Barely able to sit up after the hard fall that he had taken, I landed a drop kick on him and knocked him out cold. And he thought that I couldn't take him on. But then, that was about ten times better than what I could do when I was in Mark's studio. It must've been the adrenaline.

Randy, roused by all of the commotion, came downstairs in little more than a pair of black boxer shorts. "What the hell happened down here?" And then, his eyes widened when he saw Dave. "Did _you_ do this?"

I motioned to the bruise on my cheek. "He punched me and threatened to do worse. All I did was run in to him. It was an innocent mistake." Fearfully, I waved my hand at the scene I had made. "It was all in self-defense, I swear."

"Man, kid." He crossed his arms over his muscled chest and whistled swiftly. "Remind me never to piss you off. He won't wake up for a week. He'll be lucky if he can sit down in two."

Suddenly worried, I felt a dark blush wash over my cheeks. "But he'll be okay, won't he?"

Randy walked over to him, bent down, and grabbed his wrist. "The bastard's got a pulse. He'll be fine."

I couldn't help but stare at the perfect outline of Randy's ass within the boxer shorts. They were a bit too large for his slim frame, but it didn't bother me too terribly. His entire body was clean shaven and tan, like he spent his entire life on the beach. Two identical sleeve tattoos held my attention for only a moment, but they captivated me nonetheless. Randy was always so covered up. It was almost like he was ashamed of his body. I didn't know why. His body was absolutely beautiful.

Randy snapped his fingers in front of my face. "You alive in there, kid?"

I shook out of it, my blush only deepening. "Yeah. Sorry about that. What was it that you said?"

"I said that he'll be fine. However, _you_ won't be if your Dad finds him cooling in his own bodily fluids here. Grab his feet, I'll take his head. We'll take him up to his room so he can rest." Randy said.

I was quick to obey his command. I didn't want to cause any more trouble with my Dad. "Thank you so much for this, Randy. You don't know how much this means to me."

"Don't take it for granted, kid. My services don't come cheap."

* * *

Brock never had a trial. At first, I found this a trifle unusual. After all, he had shot down a man in cold blood and had also been found with anabolic steroids. I knew for a fact that, if Jeff were still with us (rest his soul) he would want Brock safe behind bars. But Adam had refused to file any charges. Part of it must have been the fact that he wasn't in any condition to testify, but the other was because of me. If Adam were to testify, then he would have to reveal the truth. And that was that Brock had raped me.

It was only later that I found out that my father was the one who made the trial disappear. He had taken me aside and explained to me that Brock shooting an innocent, unarmed man wasn't 'good' for the name of the halfway house. It could result in the loss of our government funding, as well as my father's license. And once that was taken away, where were we? Out on the streets? He had asked me if I wanted to sit through a trial and watch them drag our family name through the mud. I wanted to ask him where the sanctity was in our family name.

That was the last time that I spoke with my father for the next two weeks. I know that it was rather immature, but I'm only seventeen. I'm still unsure what I want to make of my life, but I know one thing for certain. I want out of this hellhole everyone insists on calling a home. It's not a home to me. It never was, it could never be. So long as my father refuses to see the light and Brock continues to torment me, I know one thing for certain. I will forever be alone.

* * *

I had made a promise to Adam. I told him that I would try to talk with my father. As much as I didn't want to, I would try. But now that I stood outside of his office, one hand raised to knock on the door, I knew that it wasn't the best idea. My father was in a delicate emotional state. While Brock may have been responsible for Adam's injuries, and more injuries then I would like him to know about, he was still his son. And we were all that he had left in this world, now that my other Dad had died. Frankly, I was worried about him.

Gathering all of the courage that I could muster, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. This was eerily similar to my earlier encounter with Adam, but I knew for a fact that my Dad hadn't been shot. When I knocked a second time and he didn't answer, I just let myself inside. He sat behind the desk, mountains of paperwork in front of him. There was no reason that he shouldn't have been able to hear me knocking. And even as I made my way to his desk, I knew that he could tell that I was there, even if he didn't acknowledge me.

"Dad…" I mumbled softly. He tensed, but otherwise made no gesture to show that he had heard me or even acknowledged my presence. "Dad, we need to talk about something. It's important. It's about Adam."

Dad didn't even look up from his paperwork. "I'm busy, John. Can't we talk about this later?" With a flick of his wrist, he signed his name on another dotted line. When I didn't move, he frowned, "You're still here."

My heart sank in my chest. "We need to talk about this eventually, Dad. From the way that you're acting, you're making me feel like you loved Brock more than me. I know I'm not the perfect son, but don't act like I don't exist."

Dad's hand clenched around the fountain pen until black ink spurted over his fingers and ruined the paper he was working on. "That's enough, John. This conversation is over. Don't you have wrestling practice or something?"

"You just want to get rid of me." I slammed my fist down on the desk. Now, he had pissed me off. "Well, it won't be so easy. We need to talk about this, Dad. And I won't leave until we do."

"You want to torture me with this? Fine, John. Go right ahead. Why don't you torture me with it until I have a heart attack? Will that make you feel like a winner? Will that make you feel like you're in control?"

My lower lip trembled and tears threatened to spill from my eyes. "How could you say that? I love you, Dad! You're all that I have left, and like it or not, I'm all that you have left! So don't treat me like I don't exist! Don't treat me like I'm not here!"

My father slammed his fist down on the desk, a look of utter infuriation on his face. "I want you out of my office, John. _Now_." In his eyes, I could see the pain of losing everything he had once held dear. In mine, I'm sure he could see the pain of betrayal.

"Fine! You want me out? You don't have to ask me twice!" I stormed off in the direction of the door, but before I left, I turned back and glared at him. "I never wanted to hurt you with any of this. But now, I hope all of the secrets _burn_ you."

I stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind my back. I could hear my father collapse in his chair, holding his head in his hands as he sobbed. It was absolutely awful. But, at the same time, there was a sick sense of relief within me. I felt as if a ten-ton weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I knew that my father needed to know about Brock. I knew that he needed to know about what he had done to me. But, right now, I didn't trust myself to be the one to tell him. It would be better if he found out himself.

Fear. That was a word that I knew all too well. I wasn't afraid of my father, but at the same time, I was. I was afraid of what he would do when he found out that I had been lying to him this whole time. When he learned that I had been raped by Brock, would he still love me? When he learned that I had been abused by Mark, would he still smile when he introduced me as 'his baby boy'? I knew that I would never be as perfect as Brock, but some part of me had always hoped that I could be. That part of me died that day.


	12. Run Away

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Crime, Non-Con, etc.

* * *

I had made my decision. It was actually a lot harder than it should have been – or, at least, _I_ think it was. My father had already made his decision. If Brock wasn't around, then I didn't matter anymore. And I refused to be in a situation where I didn't matter. However distorted the belief might have been, I used to think that I could go to my father and tell him anything (even, if the time ever came, that Brock was hurting me) and that he would take me in his arms, comfort me, and tell me that it wasn't my fault. Now, I knew that that was only a dream.

I came to the conclusion that I had to leave around four o' clock in the morning, when everyone in the halfway house was knocked out cold. In about two hours or so, my father would get up and check each of the bedrooms to make sure that nobody had absconded in the night, and then he would lock himself away in his office for the rest of the day. So I had a little bit of time. Carefully, I slid out of bed and started to take off my tattered pajamas. I dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. There was really no reason to get all dressed up to run away from home, was there?

My old suitcase was tucked underneath the bed, so I pulled it out and tossed it onto the mattress. I only had one, so I had to be clever about what I took with me. In the end, I decided on a few outfits, my wallet (not that it had a shitload of money in it or anything), a pair of sneakers, my composition book, and my cell phone. It was only after all of this was packed and I was halfway to my door that I realized I didn't have a car. My only other choice would be the bus, and what bus came around _here_ at four o' clock in the morning?

"Damn it!" I screamed, before clasping a hand over my mouth. It wouldn't due to awaken my father, or Batista for that matter, because that would absolutely devastate my plan. When I didn't hear anything down below, I continued to carry out my plan… albeit much quieter.

Immediately, I knew who I had to go see. I set my suitcase by the doorway and slithered out into the hallway. Since my bedroom was on the second floor, I had to carefully make my way up the staircase that leads to the third floor. The staircase was squeaky, remember. And I really couldn't afford to have anyone wake up and ruin my plan. I had already come so far. I just needed a set of wheels – and Randy, well, he had a fucking _Bentley_. If you're gonna run away from home, why not do it in style?

I just opened the door to his bedroom. If I knocked, it would wake the whole damn house up. Luckily, he was already awake. Shutting the door behind me, I steeled myself for a fight. "I need your help."

"Oh?" He raised a dark eyebrow. "Forgive me, but I do believe that _you_ are the one that's in debt to _me_." Randy just threw it out on the table, waiting to see if I would take the bait. I considered it for a minute, but never answered him exactly.

"Don't you hate it here? I mean, this is all you've got. One tiny little room. The food sucks – it's okay, you can admit it. There are assholes everywhere just itching to beat you to a bloody pulp, or worse…" I trailed off, remembering some of the more drastic incidents.

Randy continued to wear a look of confusion. It suited him well. "Gosh, kid. Never really thought about it that way. Considering that I barely have enough stuff to fill one room and all." The last bit was filled with sarcasm.

"Well, I want out. And I want out _know_. I only have an hour left, Randy, and I need your help." Silently, I prayed that he would listen to me.

"Is this about that tiff that you had with your old man, kid? You know that he'll be devastated if he finds out that you left in the middle -,"

I never allowed him a chance to finish. "My old man won't give a damn if I turn up dead on the side of the road."

Randy's eyes widened at the utter firmness in my tone. It was clear that I had deliberated over this for a long time. "Harsh words, Johnny. Are you sure about this?" I nodded firmly. "You do realize that this is in violation of my -,"

"I already checked your records, Randy. You served your full sentence. Unlike everyone else here, _you_ don't have parole. You're free to leave the halfway house whenever you want." I told him matter-of-factly.

"Remind me to be pissed off about that later." Randy retorted with narrowed eyes. "Fine, I'll meet you at the Bentley in five."

"You don't know how thankful I am that you're doing this for me!" I said with a smile, but not before catching his last words.

"You better be damn thankful, 'cause if you so much as _drool_ in my Bentley, it'll be your ass!"

True to his word, Randy was downstairs three minutes later and had the Bentley around front in five. I just had one more thing to grab. Running downstairs, I slid into the library and grabbed the first-edition of _Alice in Wonderland_ that Randy was so fond of. He read through it almost every day. It would be an awful shame for him to have to be without it. I slid it into the front of my suitcase to protect it from the awful weather, before I rolled it out front and tossed it into the backseat of the Bentley. Soon after, I was in the passenger seat.

Randy had a blanket in his arms and he tossed it to me. I was immediately able to identify the material as fleece. He told me to bundle up (my old crappy t-shirt was already soaked through by this point) on account of the heater was broken. I probably would have fussed a bit more about the fact that he never told me the heater was broken, but he was a free ride. He would come with me and be my protector. And I wouldn't have to worry about the monsters in the closet anymore. It seemed like the perfect payoff.

"Just for the record, you're Dad's gonna be heartbroken when he finds out that you ran away, Johnny." Randy said. "Even if you don't think so, the old man loves you a lot. You're lucky to have somebody that loves you that much."

And then I remembered that Randy had walked in on both of his parents after they had died from an overdose. Weakly, I offered, "I'm sure that your parents loved you too, Randy." Because, really, that was all that I could think of to say.

"Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. I don't trouble myself over it anymore. They're gone and I'm still here. Life continues on whether you want it to or not." Randy muttered softly, slowing down at a red light. "Last chance. Do you want me to turn around?"

I stared into his icy blue eyes, mine steeled over with a conviction that I had never felt before in my life, his just _tired_. "No chance in hell."

He smirked, easing out of the lane we were in and sliding into the next one, hitting his turn signal. For the first time, I realized that he had been driving in circles around the halfway house. Smart move, Randy. Smart move. "That's my boy."

After a few minutes, we were on the interstate. Not knowing why, I leaned over and asked him, "You think he'll care that I just vanished in the middle of the night? You think he'll try to call?"

And, as if he hadn't just told me the answer ten minutes ago, he answered comfortingly, "If the man has any sense, he'll call as soon as you don't come down for breakfast. Have a little faith, Johnny. You're old man will come through."

Unfortunately, Randy's words did little to comfort me. It wasn't that I didn't have faith. In fact, I like to think that I have a lot of faith. Too much, sometimes. I like to see the best in people and sometimes, just sometimes, there isn't any goodness to see. Like Brock. There was absolutely no goodness in Brock, and no amount of brotherly love and affection would change that. And maybe that was true of my father as well. Maybe no amount of love from me would ever change the fact that he hated me because I was the reason Papa couldn't have anymore children.

Really, my father had absolutely no sense at all.


	13. A Destination

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone, other than Nell and Zane.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

You remember when Randy said 'the old man would call just as soon as he realized I was missing'? Yeah, to _hell_ with that theory. I woke around eleven the next morning, covered in some blanket – if you could even _call_ this 'covered' – at a gas station about twenty or so miles out of town. It was then that I remembered _everything_, and that bitter sense of hatred for my dear old man returned.

Okay, I didn't hate him. Not exactly, anyway. It would be a gross miscalculation to call this 'hatred'. This was a special kind of hatred that I reserved only for those who had hurt me in some way. No, this was not hatred. It was loathing. I loathed the old man and all that he stood for. And it wasn't even that he didn't want Brock behind bars, no. It was that he wouldn't give a damn if I lived or died.

Randy wasn't a liar. Not necessarily. I think that he actually believed what he said, and I was naïve enough to believe him as well. But now, in the light of the new day, I could clearly comprehend the truth. It was a Thursday. At eleven o' clock, I would have been in school for four hours now. Certainly, they would have called my father by now. And yet, my cell phone had yet to ring.

There was a knock on the window. I rolled my head to the side and looked out. Randy had been in the gas station chatting it up with the boy behind the counter, and it looked like the schmoozing had paid off, because he motioned for me to roll down the window and tossed in a carton of smokes. We were both underage, so he must've been a real smooth talker to get them off the straitlaced kid.

"You okay in there, kid?" That was the only thing that annoyed me about Randy. He was always calling me 'kid'. There was only a year between us, after all.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" I looked at him as innocently as I could, sliding the smokes into the glove compartment while I did so. He finished pumping the gas and started to clean up.

"Oh, no reason really. It could be that you fell asleep ten minutes into the ride and didn't wake up for damn near seven hours. Have you not been sleeping well?" He asked.

I batted my eyelashes obscenely, trying to make it appear as if I didn't understand how he could possibly conceive that. "Oh, I sleep just fine. Like a rock. No worries at all."

"Is it so shocking that I don't believe you?" He asked, his voice dry and his tone humorless.

"No, I suppose it isn't." He walked around to the driver's side and slid in. "How'd you get these?"

"The smokes? Fake ID." Was his nonchalant answer.

"How old did it say you were? A hundred?"

He smirked, like he found that real funny and all. "Nah. Only fifty."

We both broke down into peals of laughter after that. It wasn't really all that funny, really. I think it was all of the adrenaline that wanted out of our systems. It took a lot of balls to run from a halfway house like that. I mean, after all, the house is designed to get you accustomed to living in society after a long stay behind bars. It's unusual for an ex-con to want to rush that process and all.

But Randy… I couldn't really think of him as an ex-con. He was just a kid, and a kid like any other. He was macho and all, but he also had this really sweet, almost charming side to him. One day, he could be hot and sweaty, working under the Bentley. The next, he could be holed up in the library, reading the first-edition _Alice in Wonderland._ There was just so much I didn't know about him…

"So, where are we headed?" I asked him, as if he knew. He was the one behind the wheel, after all.

"I don't know." He shrugged. Pulling out of the gas station, he hit the main road and asked for a smoke. "After all, this was _your_ idea. You should be the one with a destination."

A dark blush fanned over my cheeks. "To tell you the truth? I didn't really think that far ahead."

"You want the truth, kid?" He asked, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't think you did."

So I leaned against the window, which was still partially cracked, and watched as the towns flew by. This all seemed to be happening _so fast_. Not that I would go back. No, I _never_ intended to go back. Maybe once, to attend the old man's funeral, or to make sure that Adam was taken care of, but I was _never_ going back to that house again. Not if it killed me to stay away.

And then an idea occurred to me. It was a dreadful idea, really. It was the kind of idea that comes to mind after six hours of sleep, when you've just run away with your best friend/romantic interest, and are drunk on life and the smell of tobacco and everything else the world has to offer. What was that idea? I decided I'd give my Uncle Glen a buzz.

Glen Jacobs wasn't _really _my uncle. Honestly, he was Phil's uncle. To be even more honest, he was more a father to Phil than Mark could ever hope to be. Glen was in an accident when he was a young boy that resulted in an extreme physical disfigurement. Now, he lives in Ambler with his husband, Matt, and their two kids. The older, Nell, is just Glen's, but Zane was both Glen and Matt's.

I knew his number by heart. I memorized it when I was a little kid. On the third ring, he answered, _"Hello?"_

"Hey, Uncle Glen. It's Johnny. Did I call at a bad time?" Most likely, I had called in the middle of a battle to get Zane dressed and out the door for afternoon kindergarten.

_"No. Not at all."_ A child-like scream in the distance ruined any credibility he might have had. _"What do you need, John? I don't mean to sound pushy or anything, but -,"_

"No. I totally understand. You have a life to get back to." And I didn't. "I ran away."

Silence. And then, imploringly, _"You did _what_, exactly?"_

"I ran away from the halfway house. I couldn't take the way he was treating me anymore."

_"He didn't put his hands on you, did he?"_ Glen hissed menacingly. Did I mention he and Dad don't get along… like, at all? He was the _perfect_ man to call.

"No, of course not. He would never do that." And then, I added, "But he might as well have."

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_ And then he turned from the receiver, told the kid to quiet down, and came right back to me. You could always trust Uncle Glen to be there for you.

"I can tell you all of that later. But listen – my friend, he ran away too, and I, we both need a place to stay. We've been in the car for days," Randy shot me a look, "and could use a nice, comfy bed or two."

_"Consider it done."_ He said. _"How long will it take for you all to make it down here?"_

I looked to Randy. He mouthed the word 'six'. "About six hours, give or take."

_"Okay. We'll be ready for you then."_

As I tucked my phone back into the safety of my pocket, I noticed Randy shooting me odd looks out of the corner of his eye. He never spoke, though, and I saw no invitation for me to clear the air either. We just continued to cruise along the highway, barreling toward a future that was unknown for the both of us. I probably should have been scared, but I really wasn't. Randy made me feel… safe.

After a while, Randy leaned over and turned on the radio. It was set to a heavy metal station, which didn't suit either of us right now. So he flipped it to a classic rock station instead. The car had one of those old fashioned radios with the dial and the little red marker that would slide across all the available stations. It was pretty cool. And, at the same time, it was strangely comforting to see.

Randy leaned back, nodding his head to the beat. "You do know that, once you're in the quick sand, it's up to _you_ to find the branch to save your scrawny ass…"

I knew he meant it lovingly, but I couldn't help but recoil a bit at the words. I felt like he didn't have faith in me. Nobody did. "I know that. I know."

But did I?


	14. Dangerous Realizations

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone, other than Nell and Zane.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Incest, Non-Con, Crime, etc.

* * *

The next six hours came and went in a blur. I don't remember much about them at all, save for the utter silence of the car as we sped toward our destination. I could tell from the tension in Randy's shoulders that there was something he wanted to tell me, but I couldn't read his eyes. More often than not, they were fixed on the road. But when he would occasionally steal a look over at me, all I could see were two endless blue eyes. And I liked it.

I kind of consider myself a victim of my own imagination, you see. If I can read into something even the smallest bit, then my mind will go on some sort of crazy adventure with it. Maybe that was a byproduct of the crazy house that I lived in, maybe not. All I know is that the minute I was out of there, the overthinking stopped. It was like it had been frozen in mid-thought, and that thought had been about Randy. Now, it was near impossible to get him out.

Not that I minded. Really, I didn't. I could sit there and stare at the older boy for _hours_, if I were so inclined. He was fucking gorgeous, if you know what I mean. And it had been a long time since I was ever attracted to someone that saw me as a person first, a piece of meat second. I'm pretty sure that, sitting in the corner of the seat in his Bentley, I considered the very real possibility of a future with Randy for the first time. It seemed… nice.

"So, you never told me who you were on the phone with. Y'know, the one you lied to and all." Randy shot me a serious look that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I had never liked confrontation.

"It wasn't a lie. If Glen knew the truth, you know that he'd sent us right back to hell." Randy opened his mouth, shut it again, and turned back to the road. "Besides, it _feels_ like I've been in this damn car _forever_."

Randy's serious look turned evil all of a sudden. "You wanna mock the Bentley? Seriously?" He slammed down on the breaks and, for once, I was thankful we were alone on the road. "One more remark like that and you can _walk_."

"Okay, okay. Geez, I'm sorry." I tried to brush it off like it was nothing, but we both noticed the way that I had shrunk away from him. Randy's look turned uneasy, before he tapped the gas pedal meekly.

"Sorry, kiddo. I didn't mean to scare you like that. It's just… this car means a lot to me, that's all. But that's not excuse to act the way that I did." It was a rare apology that I doubted I'd ever hear again.

_"It was his father's_." My own father's voice snuck into my head, uninvited.

I shrugged it off, offering a weak smile. "It's okay, man. And I'm not a little kid. I'm only a year younger than you."

"Yeah, well, until you stop making stupid decisions like running away from home, you'll always be a kid."

That ended our conversation real fast. I think that it was meant to, actually. Randy was still rather hot under the collar about me 'insulting' the Bentley – even though I _still_ don't know how I managed to do that – and I was still a little shaken up from his violent outburst. I knew that the old man had mentioned Randy had a history of IED, but until then, I'd never seen it first-hand. It was rather scary.

I tried to make myself more comfortable on the seat, finding it hard to control my shivers in a car with barely any heat control. It was an older model and most mechanic shops didn't carry the supplies needed to fix it up anymore. It must've cost a fortune to get fixed by professionals, so Randy confessed that he did most of the work himself. When he noticed me shivering, he took a fresh blanket out of the back and tossed it to me. I thanked him. He shrugged.

"You wanted to know who these people are, right?" Randy nodded, his eyes still fixed on the road. Maybe he didn't trust my judgment, and that was why he was so on edge. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

"Yeah. If we're gonna stay with them for a few days, it might be helpful to know their names." Randy muttered sarcastically. He said something else, but it was under his breath and kind of difficult to understand.

"I called my Uncle Glen. Well, actually, he's Phil's uncle. A little mentally unstable, you know the drill."

Randy rolled his eyes. "It seems to run in the family."

I turned to him, a scowl on my face. I was a little offended on my best friend's behalf. "I hope that wasn't a jab at Phil." I said.

"Oh, it was more than a jab. It was a straight-up insult."

"Why?" I asked. I was about ready to take him up on his offer to walk the rest of the way.

Randy scowled. It was obvious he didn't fancy the specifics. "It's common knowledge that I didn't get along with my parents while they were alive, but I know my father loved me. Mark and Phil… well, that's a different story."

I shivered at the mention of Mark's name. "And how is that any of your business?"

"It's _my_ business because your father thinks you want to kill yourself because you stepped in and took the bullet for Phil. He probably thinks you're dead now and if he finds out that _I_ agreed to help you escape…"

"You're only concerned about yourself." I couldn't believe his hateful conceit.

"No, I'm not. I'm concerned about you too, because I know how it feels to lose someone close to you and blame yourself for it. I'm concerned for your father, because without you, he'll die."

"He has Adam." I answered nonchalantly.

Randy slammed on the breaks. I lurched forward, the seatbelt cutting my skin. "He has _nobody_!"

We stared each other down for a few minutes. I can tell you honestly that, out of all of my dangerous encounters with unsavory men, I felt _fear_ for the first time as I looked into Randy's cold-blooded, snake-like blue eyes. If he was a boa constrictor, he would have slithered around me and squeezed and squeezed, forcing all of the air out of my lungs and rejoicing as I fell over, dead from suffocation. But he wasn't a snake. He was just a teenage boy.

And then I realized that that was what we both were. We were just two teenage boys on the run from a fate that was just a bit worse than death. I knew that I couldn't take another rape. I couldn't take being beaten by those in my own home, and suffering the emotional torture of my father's absent love. And there it was. I had just admitted to my own inner, concealed, conceit as well. I couldn't deal with the pain, so I would make my father endure pain also.

Randy watched me for a moment, and for the first time, I could clearly read his eyes. He was afraid also, but for very different reasons. Randy was afraid that he would lose me, afraid that he would be thrown back behind bars and lose the only friend he ever had. In hindsight, our conversation never had anything to do with Mark or Phil or Dad, it had to do with _what would happen to us_. If we were ever found, would we be punished for what we did?

Randy stepped on the gas once more, this time even more tentatively than the first. "So, my Uncle Glen, who is really Phil's uncle. He's the one that I called. He and Dad aren't on the best of terms." I started over again.

"Perfect revenge?" Randy asked with a shy, somewhat hesitant smile.

"You know it." I returned it tenfold, trying to make him feel more comfortable. And it worked, to a certain extent. "He had this girlfriend, a redhead named Amy Dumas. They had a daughter Cornelia, but everyone calls her Nell."

"Cute name for a little girl – Nell." Randy's smile seemed to blossom.

"You think so?" Randy nodded. "I think so too."

So, Randy then inclined his head. "Well? Go on."

"So, they broke up when he found out that she was cheating on him with this dude, Matt Hardy. He's Jeff's older brother. Y'know, the one that died in battle?" Randy nodded. "And Uncle Glen married Matt… but we call 'im Zack."

"Anything else?" It was almost a sarcastic question. Of course there was more. I could spend days, maybe even years, telling the entire backstory of Glen and Matt, but that would take much too long.

"And they had a little boy named Zane, who has the most adorable little dimples you've ever seen in your life. He's still real little now, and Zack may even let you hold him, if you ask real nicely…" and so went the rest of our drive.

* * *

Matt was the only one home when we finally arrived. He greeted us with a warm smile and a shake of the hand, before ushering us into the living room and telling us where to leave the shoes. That was one of Matt's really funny quirks. He loved to vacuum, which was kind of unusual. And after he vacuumed, you weren't allowed to walk on the floor with your shoes. It tracked mud and all that.

He showed us to our room, which was on the first floor at the end of the hallway. It was the only bedroom on the first floor and it was also their only guest bedroom, so we would have to share. The bathroom was down the hall and he told us that there were fresh toothbrushes in there and the like, but if we had anything to put in there, there was room. And after telling us when dinner would be, he left us to our own devices.

Randy left for the bathroom with his bag, leaving me alone. I plopped down on the bed and made myself comfortable, unsure of what to do. And then I remembered what Randy had said on the drive over. Dad had _nobody_. Unconsciously, I started to reach for my phone. My fingers knew the number, even if my brain was checked out in Never Never Land. After the third ring, he answered…


	15. A Call To Hunter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

_"Hello?"_ My father's voice washed over the line. I had called the house number, if only to make sure that he wouldn't see my number on the Caller ID and refuse to answer.

"Hi, Dad. It's me… John." I probably didn't have to tell him my name, but I did so anyhow. It wasn't a collect call, after all, so it couldn't have been Brock. "Um… how are you?"

_"What the fuck do you mean 'how am I'? Where are you, John? You know better than to leave on your own. It's not safe out there."_ My father rambled on, obviously agitated.

I swallowed hard. I should have expected this from him. "I'm not going to tell you where I am, Dad. To be honest, I don't think that you really care where I am. If you did, you would have called by now."

Silence ensued. For a second, I was sure that he had hung up on me. And then, _"John, please come home. We can talk about this. I understand that I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that. But it isn't safe out there and -."_

"Oh, because it's so much safer in the halfway house? You don't know _half_ of the shit that goes on when your back is turned!" I screamed. This wasn't the way that I wanted this conversation to go at all.

My Dad growled. I could almost feel him glaring at me. _"Jonathon Helmsley – you are not safe out there alone. If you come back to the halfway house, I can protect you. You'll be safe."_

"No, Dad. I was never safe there." I breathed uneasily. My hands trembled as I stared off into space, before muttering the words that I had forever dreaded confessing to him. "Brock raped me."

I ended the call there. Some might have called it cowardly, but I really wasn't in the mood to sit around and hear my father break down over what I had just told him. It wasn't really news that should be delivered over the phone, after all. But I couldn't think of anything else. Right then, I just needed ammunition that would hurt him as much as he had hurt me. Now, he knew that the son he had always protected was the one that had been hurting me all along.

I tossed the phone across the room and watched as it hit the wall. It didn't shatter like I wanted it too, it had been built better than that. But it did make a considerable noise and fell to the floor, flickering on and off for a few seconds before the battery died. Now, even if my father tried to call back, he wouldn't be able to reach me. And I kind of liked it that way. Call it selfish, or whatever else you want, I don't really care. Maybe I _was_ selfish.

Randy, who had still been in the bathroom during our little conversation, stormed into the room shortly after I threw my phone at the wall. Much to his credit, Matt did not. He must be used to ignoring small avalanches within the house, with two children under ten running around like chickens with their heads cut off. But Randy was a different story. Randy frantically looked between me and the fallen phone, before he frowned.

"What… What exactly happened in here?" He kinda sounded like he didn't know what to ask, so he settled on that half-assed question. I suppose I'll never know for sure.

"You don't want to know." I mumbled, running a hand over my face. Much to my shock, I found myself crying.

"Are you… Are you crying, Johnny-boy?" He asked me. When I looked away defiantly, I believe he received the answer to his question. "Does it have to do with the fact that your phone is now resting in peace?"

"I called my Dad." I mumbled sullenly.

Randy nodded, as if he understood. Both of us knew, however, that he could never understand. "It didn't go well."

"That would be an understatement." I laughed, even though it wasn't exactly funny. This was the hell that I lived in, and even thousands of miles away from home, I couldn't escape it.

Randy came over and sat down on the bed next to me, slinging an arm around my shoulders in an offer of comfort. I had never had anyone consciously want to comfort me before. Well, there had been my father… but we all know how that one turned out. Warmed and calmed by his embrace, I allowed myself to set my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Tenderly, he rocked us back and forth, mumbling sweet words of comfort to me.

Finally, I told him about the short and brutal phone call. Hell, it's not like there was a whole lot to tell. I explained that my father wanted me to come home (never once mentioning Randy's obscure absence) because I wouldn't be safe anywhere else. So, instead of agreeing with him, I lashed out at him. I told his that Brock had raped me and I hung up on him. And while I felt awful about it now, it felt wonderful to have it off my chest.

Randy stroked my hair softly. "Is that all, Johnny?"

I chuckled blandly. "Does there really have to be more?"

"I guess not." Randy said, laughing in a distant sort of way. I found myself staring at his lips, loving the unfamiliar sound of his laughter. Randy caught on quickly. "Can I help you, kiddo?"

"You have a really pretty mouth." I muttered, barely even realizing what it was that I was saying.

Randy flushed, looking away. "Well… I don't think anyone's put it quite like that before."

Before he could say anything more, I leaned forward, "And I think I have a much better purpose for it to be fulfilling." Officially closing the distance between us, I connected our mouths in a soft kiss.


	16. The Call From Hunter (A)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

Much to my surprise, Randy withdrew without returning the sentiment. "Do you really know what you're doing, kiddo?" He asked me, his tone wavering only slightly.

I looked at him, hoping that my confusion was portrayed clearly in my gaze. "Yeah… I was kissing you. I was enjoying it too, and I had this crazy notion that _maybe_ you felt the same."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I _did_ enjoy it. But, Johnny…" he stared into my eyes, never once looking away. "I don't want this to be some sort of sudden occurrence, one strike and then it's gone. Think. Is this really what you want?"

Who was he trying to kid? I didn't have to think about something as easy as this! "Of course I want this." I said.

Randy chuckled then, missing the deadly look that I sent his way. "Let me try this: do your hormones want me more?"

"What?" I asked without really thinking. And then, I realized what it was that he was _truly_ asking me. Before I could really control myself, the aforementioned hormones got out of hand. "Do you really think that I would be that dumb?"

Randy sighed, rubbing his temples in what I assumed was supposed to be a soothing manner. "I never said -,"

"Of course, you would never say it out loud. Why would you want to be with the _raped_ kid, after all?" I hissed.

Randy's eyes widened and flared with burning anger. "Don't you _dare_ put words in my mouth!"

Without really thinking about what I was doing, I shoved him off of the bed. Normally, I wouldn't have the strength of an ant… but today was different for some reason. With one small shove, I sent Randy sprawling onto the floor. He landed with a not-so-soft _oomph_, and the whole room seemed to shake with the force of his fall. He cursed softly as he rubbed the small of his back, which had taken the brunt of the blow.

Looking down at Randy, I tried to think of a legitimate reason for what I had just done. I could think of none. Randy laid there, pain swimming in his beautiful blue eyes, pain that was there because of _me_ no less, and all he had done was show me kindness and compassion. I guess that that is a double-edge sword when it comes to me. I don't know how to receive it, and so I only end up hurting those that give it to me. Like my Dad. But I didn't want to focus on him.

After a moment, I realized that he was staring at me. Probably waiting to see if the 'crazy', 'unstable' kid would come and finish him off. He would never know how much it hurt to look into his eyes at that moment and see how truly afraid he was of me. All of our bickering before… that had been fun, when we had both trusted each other. But now, that trust was broken and I wasn't sure how to get it back, or even if I wanted it back.

"John, I'm sorry, I -," Randy started.

I didn't let him finish. No, correction, I _couldn't_ let him finish. "Save it, Randy. I don't want to hear any more lies. I don't want to listen to any more shit. I've had my fill."

Suddenly, Randy was on his feet. He was invading my personal space and it made me oddly uncomfortable… but at the same time, it thrilled me. "Didn't I tell you about how I feel about you putting words in my mouth?"

"I'm not attempting to put words into your mouth." I told him. "I'm simply stating the obvious. You think that I'm not of a sound mind to make a decision that is this important – and I am."

"I never said that! I just want you to think about it a little bit more, that's all!" Randy retorted.

I frowned. "Why? Why can't I just make a decision now?"

"Because maybe _I'm_ the one that's not ready for you to make a decision!" He screamed.

I was taken aback by the abrupt turn that the conversation had taken, or rather, the fight had taken. And, I'll be totally honest here, I wasn't prepared for it. I think that, had Randy told me that he thought I was mentally unstable or something of the like, I would have taken it much better than those lethal fourteen words. With those words, he had basically rejected me. He wasn't ready. What did he have to wait for?

I didn't want to hear any more of his lies, even as they continued to spill out of his mouth. He ranted on and on about how he was afraid of intimacy, how his first love had left him, and all the other lies they say when they just… don't… love… you like you love them. Making a run for the door, I almost made it there – that was, of course, until Randy's hand hooked around my wrist and held me there for one desperate second. It was one second of hope.

"Please, don't leave Johnny boy. Can't we talk about this? I know I hurt you, but I didn't mean for it to turn out like this. Johnny, please, just give me a chance to explain." He pleaded with me.

I stared into his eyes for a moment, before I shook my head. Not this time. Not me, not now. "I don't want to hear any more of your shit." And with that, the door slammed closed behind me.

* * *

The next thing I remember is sitting on a beautifully colorful hill that couldn't have been more than a few miles from Glen and Zack's house (it overlooked their yard, after all) and staring down at the house. I had a perfect view of the guest room window, where I watched Randy pace back and forth for a good half-hour. When he finally tired himself out, he drew the blinds closed and went to take an early nap – or, at least, that was what he would tell me later.

I don't know what it was that had drawn me to this place. Maybe it was the quiet majesty of the rolling hills, or maybe the calm serenity of the silent meadow… I don't know, but I _do_ know that it seemed to calm the nerves within me. They were alight with passion, ready to set my entire being ablaze. But in this meadow, for the first time, I felt the cool sensation of perfect, inner peace wash over me. And for the first time, I realized what _calm_ felt like.

You see, it was never calm in the half-way house. My Dad was under the delusion that it was controlled chaos and all, but it really wasn't. Every explosion has its own time and place, as I've grown to discover. And every one of those damn explosions happened to _me_. Your car won't start this morning? Beat up Johnny. You got a bad grade on your math final? Take it out on Johnny. Your girlfriend dumped you? Meet Johnny, human punching bag.

I bit down on the inside of my mouth and slammed my fist down onto the earth, secretly wanting it to hurt a lot more than it actually did. No, instead I just sat there, my hand now stupidly covered in dirt and dead grass, and wondered what life would be like if Shawn-Dad never died. If he was still with us, would I still be living in a half-way home with a bunch of criminals? Would I have been raped by Brock? Would I be on the run? Probably.

Because, you want to know the sucky truth about life? There's this thing called the 'natural order'. It's a real downer sometimes. But, basically, you can't have all good things happen to you, you can't cheat death, and all other such nonsense, or else it will disrupt the balance of the universe and all that. Unfortunately, it doesn't mention shit about whether all _bad_ stuff can happen to you. No, because that would be too much like right.

Because, if the world made this law that all bad stuff can't happen to one person… well, I'd like to think that the world would be a much better place. Not to sound selfish or anything, but I'd like to think it would be a much better place for me especially. I wouldn't be living in hell each and every day. I wouldn't be in love with someone that didn't love me back. I would be _normal_ – whatever this so-called 'normal' is. I'm starting to think it's just a setting on the dryer.

And that's when my phone rang. It was the phone call that changed everything. Foolishly, I didn't even look at the Caller ID. Answering in my usual monotone, I was surprised to hear, "Hi, John. It's your Dad."


	17. The Call From Hunter (B)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

I couldn't believe it. I honestly couldn't believe it. The bastard decided to call _now_ of all times? "Yeah, I know that Dad. I have Caller ID and all, because, you know, this is the twenty-first century…" I trailed off slowly.

Dad sucked in a harsh breath and, for a moment, all was silent. It was almost enough of a lag to make me think he had hung up. Almost. _"I've been thinking, John. I've been thinking a lot. Did you mean what you said? About Brock?"_

All of the anger within me seemed to come to a head with those words. "Of course I meant them! Why the hell would I lie about that?" And then, calmer, "He's been raping me for years, Dad. It's not my fault that you were too blind to see it."

_"Oh, God John. I… I just… I don't even know what to say. I know that that doesn't matter, but…" _Dad trailed off. _"I didn't mean it the way that it sounded – my question, earlier. I know you wouldn't lie about that. It's just…"_

I swallowed hard, ready to take all of my anger out on him. "I understand, Dad. Trust me, I understand. You don't want to believe that your perfect son could do something so awful. You don't want to think he could do any wrong."

_"Is that what you really think, John? Do you think that I think that Brock is perfect?"_ He asked.

"To be honest? I don't know anymore. It's not like you've actually shown me a ton of love throughout my life." I retorted.

_"Please, baby…"_ his voice sounded broken, and I just didn't care, _"Just come home. It seems so wrong to talk about this over the phone. Please? Everyone is worried sick about you. Your friends at school -,"_

"What friends?" I snapped, feeling the anger give way to despair. "I only have one friend, Dad, and he's in the hospital because his Dad beat the shit out of him. My so-called 'friends' just want to _abuse_ me. They love it, in fact."

Another pause. _"Why didn't you ever tell me?"_

"Maybe it was because you never wanted to listen." And with that, I ended the call.

It was hard to talk with my father. It really shouldn't have been, because he was the only parental figure I had had whilst growing up, and I should have been able to trust him, but that wasn't the case. I sucked in a harsh breath as I tossed the phone down the hill, watching it tumble down lifelessly. I wasn't in any hurry to retrieve it. Already, the phone had started to go off again. Undoubtedly, it was my father trying to get ahold of me again. I wouldn't be so stupid the second time.

I rose to my feet and took a second to find my balance. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I kicked at the little tufts of fresh grass that had sprouted in the slightly moist earth. I had always loved coming to Uncle Glen's house with Phil when we were little. He was the one that had introduced us, after all. Whenever we were there, Phil was absolutely safe from the wrath of his father. Glen would never lay a hand on him, unlike his older brother. No, he loved to have both of them over.

However, when Glen had started to catch on to the abuse that Phil's father was inflicting on him, Mark abruptly stopped the visits – at the same time, the connection between my Dad and Mark sort of died off as well. Sure, he still taught me how to wrestle, but they didn't really interact anymore. I still kept in contact with Glen, but that died off as well when he married Zack. Our lives sort of diverged – at least, until this moment.

It was starting to get dark. I knew that I had to head back soon, or else Zack would realize that I had disappeared and freak out. I didn't want to cause them any trouble, especially considering the fact that they had taken me in when I had nowhere else to go. They deserved better than that. Slowly, I started to move back toward the house. When I was near the window, I heard a rustling from inside the guest bedroom. From between the blinds, I could see Randy sitting at the foot of the bed.

He was holding something in his hand, but I cannot see what it is. "You were never really good at listening to what I had to say, but I guess now you have no other choice." He laughed bitterly, tears shining in his eyes.

Who was he talking to?

"I don't think I've even told you his name. His name is John. And I… I think I… God, I can't even say it when he's not in the room, can I?" He laughed again. "I'm pretty sure that love shouldn't hurt this badly."

He loved me? How could he love me when he just turned me away like this?

"He's broken, so broken Dad. I'm not sure… I'm not sure that I'm enough to fix him. I can try the best that I can, but I'm not sure that I'm enough. I wasn't enough for you and mom, or for Sam…" he trailed off, the tears running freely down his face.

His hands trembled around whatever he held. Who was Sam?

Randy sucked in a trembling breath. "And when I tried to explain to him that maybe he's not the one with something wrong with them, maybe there's something wrong with _me_, he thought I was insulting _him_ and walked out."

'His words just didn't make any sense.

"I don't know what to do, Dad. Please… help me. Just help me. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Help me, just this once. That's all I need. Just your one-time advice, and then it'll all be over. Please…" and then his voice died away.

I couldn't listen to any more of his little introspective bit there. It hurt to listen to the brokenness in his voice. And, somehow, I knew that I was the one that had caused it. Unintentionally, of course. I would never hurt Randy intentionally. But… I was just so hurt, so destroyed on the inside. It felt like he had taken my heart and crushed it in his hands, and I just wanted to hurt him back. And that's what I did. But there was no satisfaction in that.

I stumbled into the kitchen and took a seat at the island counter, drumming my fingers on the counter as I inspected the perfectly pristine kitchen. Zack was a tad obsessive over cleaning the house, which was understandable, considering there were little kids about and all that. With my free hand, I took one of the apples from the bowl of fruit and bit into it, savoring the sweet taste as it spilled over my tongue. It was absolutely delicious and a welcome change from the crushing heat of the house.

Randy came out of the bedroom a few minutes later. His stormy blue eyes flickered up and locked with mine, and he allowed the first bit of a hesitant half-smile to form, before he just gave up and stumbled over to the refrigerator. He picked out a snack, opened it with the scissors in the utensil drawer, and then, without so much as a word, walked back to the bedroom. In that short span of time, I could clearly see just how much I had broken him. Something inside of me was broken too.

The house phone rang. Feeling more at home in Zack and Glen's house than I did in my own, I felt comfortable enough to answer it. "Hello?"

_"How did I know that I would find you there?"_ My best friend, Phil Brooks, laughed. _"It seems like you always run to your home away from home when life takes a bad turn."_

I couldn't help but smile at the sound of his voice. But then, the smile fell. "Yeah? Well, it won't be my home away from home for long. I can't go back there, Phil. It's just… there are too many memories, too many stories to tell."

Phil was silent for a moment. _"Does your Dad know where you are?"_

I shook my head, even though he couldn't see it. "No, and if things go the way I want them too, he never will."

Phil sighed. _"So this is it, huh? I know that you always talked about running away from home, but I never actually thought that you would do it. You love your Dad."_

"Yeah." I choked out, unsure if that was the truth any more. "I'm not sure if the feeling is mutual, though."

_"Did you run away with Randy?"_ Phil asked, probably already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, I did. It's a long story." I confessed.

"I have time." Phil retorted. And, really, he did. How long had he been confined to that hospital bed, unable to get up and move around and basically _live_? So I told him. I told him _everything_.


	18. A Fight With Glen

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

_"Gosh, Johnny…"_ Phil let out a low whistle as he listened to me unload in his ear. _"Your life is worse than _Jersey Shore_, and that's saying something. You should really write a book about it. Could get you a lot of money."_

I rolled my eyes, leaning against the wall for some much-needed support. "Yeah, that's a wonderful idea. I'm sure that all the assholes would love me printing their names in a book so that the entire world can know they spent half their teenage life in a halfway house."

Phil choked back a laugh, even if it really wasn't all that funny. _"But think about the money, dude! You could be a millionaire."_

"Maybe it's not about money." I told him. It was a blatant lie, though. We both knew it was about money. "I just want someone to tell me they love me… to tell me that it's okay to be the way that I am."

_"And how _are_ you?"_ Phil asked. It wasn't a rhetorical question, but I didn't know how to answer it.

After being silent for a moment, I answered, "I don't know. I'm just… I'm _me_. Broken, I guess. I don't know."

_"We're all a little broken. That doesn't mean that one person means more than another. That just means that some of us have more cracks to fill in."_ He cleared his throat awkwardly. _"End of prolific phrase of the day."_

"You're such an idiot." I teased him, but before I knew it, he had me laughing. He was kind of amazing like that.

_"I know."_ Phil said, doing his best to sound solemn. It didn't work. _"But you love me anyway."_

I swallowed hard, feeling the conversation suddenly turn serious. "Yeah, I do man. Take care of yourself, you hear me?"

_"I will."_ Phil confirmed firmly. "_I expect you to come and visit me soon. My old man hasn't been here in forever and it's so fucking lonely in this white-washed room."_ Phil let out a soft grunt, probably reaching for his water. _"Sometime this week, maybe?"_

I tried to think of any reason _not_ to go. It wasn't that I didn't want to see him, no. But it was so close to the halfway house, what if my Dad found out? I didn't know. But I couldn't just turn him down. "Yeah. That sounds great. I'll see you then."

We said our goodbyes and I ended the call, feeling an unsettling twist at the bottom of my stomach that agreeing to that visit was not in my best interest. I hadn't been feeling… right, lately. Originally, I had blamed it on all of the stress and fear from the halfway house. Now, however, I wasn't so sure. Maybe it was all the confusion from leaving everything that I knew behind and being rejected by the only guy that I actually liked, that I actually _wanted_. I swallowed hard. This was all too much.

Reaching into one of the cabinets, I took down a coffee mug and filled it with hot water. Afterword, I looked around in search of tea. They had to have tea somewhere. This was Uncle Glen, after all. He had practically invented cough syrup in the lemon tea when we were kids. Phil didn't like the way that the syrup tasted, so whenever he was sick, Glen would mix it with honey and pour it into the lemon tea. Phil never tasted the difference and it calmed his cough considerably. He wouldn't give that up now that he had kids of his own.

Just as I had expected, I located the tea right above the stove. I almost fell over attempting to climb onto the cabinet and take it down, but once I had the little square, I dropped it into the water and leaned back onto the counter to wait. It wasn't long before I was joined by Uncle Glen, who was stumbling through the door with two armfuls of groceries. I pushed off of the counter and rushed over to him, holding the door open to keep it from snagging his ankle on the return. He offered me a grateful smile, but didn't say anything.

"You need some help with those?" I offered kindly. I wanted to help him out as much as I could, considering what he was doing for me.

"That would be great, thanks." Glen said breathlessly as he placed the bags onto the island counter. They were practically overflowing with everything from fresh produce to toiletries. "Could you put this stuff away? You know where everything goes."

"Sure." I shrugged, making my way over to the first bag and retrieving the first few groceries. "Anything else?"

Glen shrugged. "I'll let you know when I think of something." And then he went back out to the car to retrieve more grocery bags.

It wasn't too hard to put all of the groceries away, but I could tell that it was a great help to Glen. He worked hard during the day in the kind of business that could drain the life out of anyone, and then adding grocery shopping to that list? It was no wonder that the man looked like he was about to drop dead! Zack must have offered him the best sex in the world, because I knew for a fact that _Zack_ was usually the one who did the grocery shopping. I wonder why it was different this time?

When he returned with the last load, he took a seat at the counter and watched as I neatly folded the paper bags from the last load and tucked them into the recycling bin. I offered him a cool drink and he accepted it with a grateful smile. Once I made sure that he was drinking, I returned to my task. It only took me about fifteen more minutes to put everything else away. After the last bag was folded, I got two more drinks out of the ice box. One I slid down the counter, smiling when Glen caught it with ease. I cracked the other and took a long drink.

"So," Glen started. His voice was low and gruff. That was never a good sign. "I got a call from your father."

I swallowed hard. Dad certainly was making his rounds. "Oh, you did?"

"Yes." Glen took a long drink, before setting the can down on the counter. "He told me an interesting little story. One that you conveniently forgot to mention." Glen's look turned grim. "You didn't tell me that you were raped."

"I didn't know that that just came up in casual conversation."

"It doesn't." Glen agreed. "But it does make a difference."

I slammed the can down onto the counter, feeling the cool liquid splash over my hands. "How does it make a difference? It never made a difference while it was happening! It never made a difference that it was my brother, or any of the other -,"

I cut myself off, realizing what I had just admitted to. My eyes widened and I felt my knees start to knock together. Shit. I must've looked so weak at that moment. Glen stared at me, "You're telling me that you've been assaulted by more than one person?"

Looking away from Glen, I swallowed hard, "No."

Glen's eyes darkened as he stared at me, the boy he had always considered an honorary nephew. "Didn't Hunter teach you better than to lie?"

My eyes slid closed and the single word fell from my lips, hitting the air with the weight of a thousand tons. "Yes."

I couldn't just come out and tell him. Why should I? Like I said before, it wouldn't make any difference. How many times had I tried to tell my Dad about it? How many times? _He never listened_. It wasn't that he didn't have the time to listen to me, or even the capacity to make it better. No, it was nothing like that. My Dad didn't listen because he didn't want to hear what I had to say. It didn't fit in with his perfect vision of the world. In his world, Brock could do nothing wrong. In his word, the boys in the halfway house were on the road to recovery, not back to jail.

And even if I had known Glen for… oh, God, how long was it now… I didn't even know… how could I know for sure that he wouldn't do the same? I sucked in a harsh breath, feeling the damming sting of tears burn at my eyes. I didn't want to cry. No, I _couldn't_ cry. Glen didn't tolerate any baby-like behavior. If I didn't tell him the truth, there would be repercussions. And, to be honest, I was more afraid of what Glen could do to me than what my father would do if he ever managed to find me. Obviously, he knew where I was if he had called Glen…

"I'm gonna ask you one more time, Johnny. I want you to tell me the truth, do you understand me?" Glen asked, his voice steady and low. I nodded, unable to look him in the eye. "Were you raped by more than one person?"

And even if I knew that there would be consequences, I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it to myself. "No, sir. I wasn't raped at all." I steeled myself for him to hit me, to scream at me, to do _something_. Instead, nothing came.

Glen sighed. "I expected more out of you, kid." He said disappointedly.

I couldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir." I told him honestly.

"Get out." Glen inclined his head toward the door. He didn't yell or anything, but I could tell he was one-hundred percent serious. "I won't have a liar under my roof. You had your chance, kid. Now get your ass out of here."

I swallowed hard, feeling fear start to choke off my air supply. "Yes, sir."

* * *

I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Glen was the last person that I had to turn to – or, at least, that was what I had originally thought. I remembered talking with my father once (one of the few conversations that we had had before our relationship went downhill), where he told me about an old flame – and still close family-friend – Stephanie McMahon. I had met her once or twice, and we had talked a little bit. Knowing my Dad, she was most likely up-to-date on the situation with Brock. Who better to turn to?

If only I could remember where she lived! Dumbly, I pulled out my phone, thinking that I could just give my old man a ring and ask where she lived. When it finally dawned on me just how _idiotic_ that idea was, I decided to look her up instead. It was surprising to find that she actually lived just a few blocks away. It looked like my luck was about to turn around. Taking a pen, I wrote the address down on my arm and tucked both back into my pocket. I didn't have a suitcase or anything, so I had to carry everything in my pockets.

The sun was still out when I started on my trek, but near the end of it, it had started to set. It cast a pretty orange-red glare over the world, like I was _literally _looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. I started to speed up a little bit at that point, realizing just how stupid it would be for me to be out after dark. With all of the problems I had with getting attacked and what not, I really shouldn't have been out there alone at all. But after that little tiff with my uncle, I really had no choice. Within a few seconds, I found myself at her door.

I knocked once. That was all it took for her to answer, a slight smile on her face. I waved sheepishly. "Hi. My name's John Cena. Can I come in?"


	19. Painful Remembrance: An Intro

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

"John? That name sounds familiar." She said, her smile faltering only slightly. "You wouldn't happen to be Hunter's boy, would you?"

"Yeah, well, that's a long story." John rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. She looked rather confused, so he decided to clarify for her. "Yes, I am his son. Whether or not _he_ would agree to that fact..."

She shook her head gracefully. "Oh no, it wouldn't be like Hunter to deny his own son. I was there in the hospital with him when Shawn died. That was when I met you and your older brother... Brock, is it?" I nodded, swallowing hard. "You two are all that he has left."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't have my brother anymore." A pause, "Could I come inside? This is a little awkward to talk about this in the open."

Stephanie nodded understandingly. That was what always pained me about her. She was so _understanding_. "Yes, of course."

She opened the door a little wider and I entered inside. Her house was incredibly large, probably larger than Glen and Zack's, and it was hard to believe that she lived here on her own. As if to answer my silent question, the wall to my left was covered in family photos. Her older brother - Shane, yes, I remember that name - holding his wife and his two kids. Her three daughters smiling brightly at the camera. All three were rather young, but it was clear the love that she had for them, they for her, and for each other. But I never saw a husband. I also never asked.

From the main hallway, she took a hard right. I followed directly behind her. Entering in an archway, I was immediately hit with the scent of vanilla and lavender. There were candles scattered all over the place. The theme of the room seemed to be purple and white, as that was the color of the candles, the color of the sofas, the carpet, the curtains... it was _everywhere_. Stephanie motioned for me to sit down, before she left the room. From the purple couch, there was a clear view of the mantle place. And there, for the first time, I saw, what looked to be, her husband.

He was overtly muscular and blond, the kind of man that you would see on the front cover of a Men's Fitness magazine. He was holding two of their daughters on his shoulders. They looked younger, so that may have been all that they had at the time. He was very handsome, but at the same time, there was an unhealthiness about him. He looked like he was sick. Before I could focus on this more, however, Stephanie returned. She had a small tray of cookies and some hot chocolate. Hell, she was the kind of woman that was always ready for company - I liked her already.

"So, what is it that you came here for? What did you want to tell me?" Stephanie asked.

"I know that you don't know me very well. We've only met once or twice in the past, and even those encounters are blurry in my memory." I told her, unable to meet her eyes. "But, for some reason, I feel like I can trust you. And I need to tell someone the truth. Someone who I know will listen."

"Won't your father listen to you?" Stephanie asked, a worried look on her face.

"I can't tell him. I told him more than I should have and... He didn't exactly take it well anyhow."

Stephanie scoffed lightly. I wanted to be offended by it, but I found that I couldn't be. "I find that hard to believe. Hunter is a practical fellow."

I laughed at that. "I would hardly call him 'practical'. But I told him too much, because he asked for the impossible. I had no choice but to tell him the truth, and that shattered what was left of our relationship. You have to believe me when I tell you that I can't turn to him."

Stephanie passed me one of the hot chocolates. I drank it, realizing that it was fixed exactly the way that I liked it. "I believe you, John. You were always an honest kid. That was one of the things that Shawn admired about you. When you did wrong, you admitted to it."

"Will you listen to my story, then?" She nodded, and I found myself pouring my heart out.

I felt that my mouth was running a mile a minute. I started at the very beginning, confessing to her that, at a young age, I started to become the target of unwanted attention from the older teens in the halfway house. I confessed that the first one to attack me had been the very boy's to kill my Papa. Tears were streaking down my face, blurring my vision as I recounted the list of gruesome torture that I had endured. All of the names... it seemed like the entire world had teamed up against me and used me at their discretion. I felt like such a tool, being used and thrown away by all of them. I told her that I felt like nobody cared.

And then, I told her about Phil. Phil, who was being abused by his father, and his father, who had been sexually abusing me. Phil was desperate for his father's affection, wanting nothing more than to hear his father tell him that he loved him. I confessed to her that I felt as if Mark dangled that in the air above him like those three words were some kind of toy - and when I tried to tell my father about this, he thought that _I_ was the one who wanted to kill myself. He thought that I was broken, but would never listen to the entire story. He never listened. And as my words slowed, I realized that I was sobbing now.

I looked at her fearfully. "Please, don't call my father."

"I have to call him, sweetie." Stephanie said. "I have to call him and let him know that you're safe. I won't send you back, but -,"

I was already up and out of the chair. "I trusted you!" I screamed. "I trusted you with my entire story and I thought that you would just accept that. And I was stupid... I'm so stupid..." I ran out, remembering the way that I came.

The front door slammed open and I tumbled out into the night. "John!" She screamed after me, but I wasn't listening.

I did not know that I would be meeting Stephanie again.


	20. Tears

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

I honestly had no idea on what I was supposed to do next.

I had expended all of my options much faster than I had anticipated. Glen and Zack, whom I had once trusted like family, had turned on me in an instant and had kicked me out of their house. Randy, the unknowing recipient of my uncontrollable hormones, was still locked away inside of that house and I had no way of coming in contact with him (not that we would readily exchange phone numbers or anything) - not that he would really want to talk to me anyhow. And Stephanie, who had been a long shot at the very least, had injected her cold venom behind the façade of a pretty smile and her charming hospitality.

I ran until my body was literally crying 'uncle'. The strain that I felt in my muscles was absolutely unbearable, and before I truly realized what was happening, I collapsed to the ground and curled into a poor representation of the fetal position. It was incredibly difficult to draw in enough air to satisfy the burning ache in my lungs. Through half-lidded eyes, I realized distantly that I had skidded to a halt by the harbor. Against the approaching twilight, boats of every shape and size danced across the twinkling water. It was a beautiful sight for an eye that was as sore as mine. Exhausted, I allowed my eyes to fall closed.

Not realizing that somewhere down the line I must've fallen asleep, I awoke to find it totally dark. Moderately disturbed by this fact, I sat up and brushed some of the grass off of my jeans. They were stained beyond saving - that was to be expected from the kind of fall I had taken, I suppose. I groaned, slowly climbing to my feet and allowing all of my muscles to slowly stretch out. I hadn't felt this weak in _ages_. The last time I could remember such an exhaustion was the first time that... I stopped that thought there, unwilling to continue on any further. This trip was all about attempting to move forward, to find new ways to move on with my life. I couldn't be held down by the past.

"You okay there, little man?" I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of another man's voice. The voice was deep with maturity, and even in the darkness it was quite obvious that he towered several inches above me.

"Yeah, I... I'm fine." I stuttered out. He reached out just to make sure, but I flinched away before he could touch me. Hastily, I said, "Sorry. I'm just a little... wary of being touched by people I don't know. I didn't mean to flip out like that."

"That's fine. Don't worry about it." His smile seemed to radiate in the darkness. "The name's Dwayne by the way. There - now we know each other."

He stretched out his hand, and after a moment of that unsettling smile never fading, I took it. "I'm John. John... Helmsley."

"Oh? You're Helmsley's boy? Isn't he the one that runs that halfway house a couple of states over?" I nodded, surprised to hear that my father's fame had extended so far. "What are you doing here, then?"

"Change of scenery." I answered dismissively.

"And your father approved of that?" He asked.

I raised my eyebrow, wondering when _anyone_ had _ever_ been so interested in my father. "He doesn't care."

He laughed darkly. "I find that a little hard to believe. Your old man runs a halfway house for reforming teenage criminals, and he's just fine with you gallivanting about in different states - what are you, eleven?"

I frowned. "I'm sixteen, thank you."

"Yeah, well, you certainly don't look like it, kid. You look like a stick."

"I think that this conversation is over." I snapped. Really, I didn't know why I was being so rude, or even why I was so on-edge. I just felt the need to put some distance between him and I. "Now, if you would be so kind as to let me leave."

He laughed again, but this time, it almost sounded sadistic. "And where do you think that you're gonna go, pretty boy? A pretty little thing like you won't last two seconds on the streets after dark. Why don't you come back with me? You'll be safe there."

Like hell I would be. I think that we both knew how stupid his offer sounded, and when I turned to walk away, he knew that he was losing out on his piece of tail. He reached out and caught hold of my shoulder, pressing down with meaty fingers until the circulation of blood was cut off. I groaned, feeling pain bubble up in my system. That's when I really started to struggle. He may have been bigger than me, but I did have one advantage. He said that I was small and thin, and with that same line of thinking, I was also _fast_. I tossed my body down as hard as I could, causing him to go off-balance. And then, spinning around, I kneed him in the crotch. He fell down hard, and I didn't stick around to see what would happen after that.

I started to run again. My muscles were still crying 'uncle' and my lungs seemed to burn from the lack of oxygen, but I knew that my 'fight or flight' reflex had kicked in - and it had probably just saved my life. I ran off, not knowing where the hell I was going. It was dark and I wasn't familiar with the city, and the scariest part of all was knowing that I had absolutely nowhere to turn. He was right. With no money in my pocket and no place I could go to where the doors could lock, anybody that wanted a piece of me could just stop and take it. I couldn't fight them all off. I just wasn't strong enough, and there were way to many freaks out there in the world for one sixteen-year-old boy to handle.

I stopped in the nearest phone booth, slid down the wall, and cried.

* * *

Once I regained control of myself, I knew that I needed to make a phone call. The phone booth advertised fifty cents for five minutes - a fairly decent fare. I plugged in the two coins and dialed Phil's number. He answered on the third ring. _"Hello?"_

"Hey, buddy, it's me." I told him, my voice still trembling. "Listen, I don't think that I ask a lot of you, do I?" Phil said 'no'. "I need you to do me a favor. And I mean, it's a _huge_ favor. I know that you're hurting, buddy, and I normally wouldn't ask this of you, but..."

_"Are you crying, Johnny?"_ I told him 'no', because what was I supposed to do? Tell him some creep had assaulted me? Never. _"And of course, Johnny. Anything that you need. Just tell me what it is and I'll do my best to make it happen."_

"Phil, I... I don't even know _where I am_. I'm so fucking scared, it's not even funny." I muttered, the tears cropping up anew.

_"What do you mean, you don't know where you are? Johnny, what's the matter?"_ Phil asked.

"I got myself into trouble, Philly - real bad trouble. I don't know what to do. I don't know..." I started to choke on my words.

"What do you mean 'bad trouble'?" Silence. "Answer me, Johnny!"

"I ran away from home, okay?" A trembling hand rose to wipe the tears from my eyes. "I ran away from home and got myself kicked out of Glen's house because I wouldn't tell him that Brock raped me. I just... I just didn't want to seem weak. Now he hates me for lying and..."

Phil listened to my breakdown in utter silence, before offering, _"I highly doubt that Uncle Glen hates you. And nobody thinks you're weak."_

"_I_ think that I'm weak!" I confessed for the first time.

_"Well, you're not. It's not your fault that your brother took advantage of you, John. It's not your fault that the others did it too. You can't control what others do or think or say - you just have to be okay with what you do yourself. Johnny, you have to forgive yourself."_

"I don't know that I can." I confessed solemnly, before shaking myself out of my pathetic stupor. That's not what I called for. "Listen, Phil. I was wondering if... if you'd call Glen. I just... I need somewhere that I can go that's safe. And he won't answer if it's me."

_"How do you know?"_

I sighed, "I don't know. I'm just too afraid to try."

There was another pause. _"Okay, I'll call him and try to get him to listen to me. On the off chance that he actually does listen, can you, like, describe your location so that I can tell him where to look for you?"_ I did, giving him the best directions I could.

"Thanks, buddy. I really owe you one." I said.

_"You don't owe me anything, John. Just... try to take better care of yourself next time, okay?"_

Phil didn't wait around for my answer. To be perfectly honest, I didn't expect him too. Phil wasn't the kind to get off on the pleasantries, after all. Once the phone call ended, I fell back against the far wall again, closing my eyes and just listening to the manic howl of the wind. I dreamt that I was in a far-off place, where everything was right with the world and Randy was there and everything was _peaceful_. I dreamt that time stood still and nothing could touch me, not even the bitterly cold wind. But when I opened my eyes, I realized just how inaccurate my dream had been. In reality, I was practically standing on a high-beam, looking down at the world as if it were a tiny ant and waiting to take my final bow into oblivion. Oh, how wonderful that would be...

I stood up and pulled out my last two quarters, stuffing them into the slot and dialing the all-too-familiar number. Even though it was late, I had a sneaking suspicion that he would answer. As it turned out, I was right. _"Hello, you've reached the Michaels-Helmsley Halfway House. How can I help you?"_

"Somehow, I knew that you'd answer. You always liked to do paperwork way into the night - to make sure that none of the 'inmates' escaped, right?" I smirked darkly. "You get any surprise calls from Stephanie McMahon, Daddy?"

_"Actually, yes, I did. She called about a half-hour ago. Said you stormed out of her house after she said she had to call. What is the meaning of this, son?"_

"What do you mean, Daddy?" I asked him innocently.

He growled on the other end of the line. _"Don't waste my time, John. I love you and I want you to come home, where you'll be safe. Just come home, son."_

I tilted my head to the side, feeling my heart swell and subsequently break at his words. "You never loved me. Don't try and lie to me now."

_"I'm not lying to you -,"_

But I cut him off. "It's just like Brock always said. You never wanted another son. I was just your _burden_. I meant nothing to the two of you. You never forgave me for what I did to Papa, and I'll never forgive you for what you did to me."

He had started to speak, but I slammed the phone down onto the receiver and fell down again. This time, when the tears came, I simply let them come.


	21. The Proposition

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

Cold, mucky water skidded off of the pavement and violently assaulted the glass side of the phone booth. The sound of car tires screeching, desperate to grab hold of the asphalt, instantly nabbed my attention. I was awake in a matter of seconds.

With a hint of disgust, I noticed that I was sitting in ankle-deep runoff. It was hard to believe that I would have nodded off so easily, but there didn't seem to be any other explanation. Looking out through the muddy panes of the phone booth, I was easily able to recognize the car. It was Uncle Glen's. This came as quite a surprise to me - I honestly didn't think that Phil would be able to do it. If he was in any sort of mood to be thanked, next time I saw him, I would be _groveling_ at his feet. Quite possibly, I owed that boy my life tonight. I just thank my lucky star he was able to come through for me.

However, what came next... well, it certainly came out of left field. The door to the left side of the back seat opened and out came Randy, looking to be dressed in little more than his pajamas. As he stepped out of the car, he found himself instantly soaked from the storm. Yet, for some reason, he didn't seem to care. He made his way over to me with that slow, determined stride that was so characteristic of him. His eyes met mine through the storm and I could tell that he was infuriated, but whether it was with me or the situation I didn't know. He yanked the door to the phone booth open rather unceremoniously.

"What the _hell_ do you think that you're doing?" Well, I can honestly say that, out of all of the things he _could_ have said, I certainly wasn't expecting that one. "It's fucking freezing out here and you're soaked to the damn bone! What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?"

I felt the familiar sting of tears in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of Randy. I didn't want him to think I was weak. "No..."

Randy only shook his head. "John, you're going to be the fucking death of me. Get off your ass and get into the car." He ordered.

"N-No..." I was ashamed to admit that my voice cracked with the beginning of a sob. "N-No, I... I can't..."

Randy growled. He reached down, fisting the front of my shirt angrily. He yanked me to my feet all to easily and I stood on wobbly legs. "You think you're so funny, don't you, kid?" And then, he laughed. "You think you have a choice about coming home or not? Let me make this clear: you _don't_."

"R-Randy, you're scaring me." I confessed weakly. Distantly, I attempted to grab onto the warning that my father had told me about Randy. IED. IED. But what the hell did that stand for? "Please, you're hurting me..."

Randy slammed me into the back of the phone booth. The driver of the car remained totally oblivious. "You think that this hurts? Huh?"

I swallowed hard, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. "Yeah, I do."

"How about what you did to me, huh? How about that? All I wanted to do was help you, damn it! I didn't want you to make any hasty decisions, didn't want you to get hurt. I was looking out for you, can't you see that? And what do you do?"

"I'm sorry..." I whispered, clawing frantically at his hand.

Randy narrowed his eyes at me. "I don't think that you realize how much you mean to me, John. I never had anyone actually want to stick around me this long. Not even my own fucking parents. I would do _anything_ for you. That was why I wanted to give you time. That was why -,"

But I cut him off. I couldn't take it any longer, couldn't hold back any longer. Releasing his hands and letting them do as they pleased, I hooked my hands on his head and brought him down for the most breath-taking kiss that I ever experienced - quite literally. His lips molded over mine perfectly, and when his hands fell away from my shirt and settled on the glass walls of the phone booth, the weight of his body settled comfortably over mine. It was an absolutely wonderful sensation, impossible to describe with words. Words simply were unable to do it justice.

He drew back for mere seconds, allowing me to desperately suck in air. But then he would take my lips again, his fingers snaking up beneath my shirt - now wet like a second skin - and mapping out intricate patterns on my belly. And I loved every minute of it, enjoying it as if it would be my last. It was very possible that I had obtained a fever from being out in the rain this long and all of this could be a mere hallucination. But it felt too real to be a mirage of the mind. It felt to... _right_ to be imaginary. And so I let myself feel, as if it would be the last time that I would be able to do so.

All of a sudden, Randy had shifted our positions and had lifted me into the air bridal-style, never once bothering to break the kiss. Opening the doors to the phone booth (in the back of my mind, I wondered when they had fallen closed again), he carried me over to the car with the greatest of ease. Secretly, I knew that he was the only one that I would ever trust to handle me so intimately. With Zack's help, he was able to slide me into the car and bundle me securely in a blanket. Glen was the one behind the wheel. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, but didn't say a word.

After Randy made sure that I was secure in the blanket, he said, "We're taking you back to the house, John. I'll run you a hot bath and wash off all of this mud and grime. I'll take care of you, okay?"

Glen and Zack stared steadfastly out of the windshield, attempting to allow us our privacy. "Why?" I asked.

"Why not?" He offered dismissively. It wasn't exactly the answer that I had been hoping for.

"I just... I want to know why you suddenly went from hating me to kissing me like you could lose me any second. Back at the house, you didn't seem to give two shits about whether I lived or died. I want to know what changed." I said.

Randy shrugged. "I don't know if I can really give you an answer to that - mostly because I'm not sure of the answer myself. But what I _can_ tell you is that I love you, Johnny, and I take care of the things that I love."

I couldn't resist the small smile that I felt budding on my face. "I love you too." I answered immediately.

Randy turned to me, one eyebrow raised. With his left arm, he held the blanket secure around me. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

* * *

True to his word, Randy took care of me as if I were his little baby doll. It was cute, but also rather annoying in some aspects. I was perfectly capable of bathing myself, for example, but Randy insisted on it. He put the dark blue washcloth in the water, allowed it to soak in the sudsy, warm water, and then carefully ran it over every available inch of my body. He paid careful attention to my neck and my back, where most of my scars were located. I wasn't sure how I felt about him taking such care around them, but the nervousness in my belly was undeniable.

Once my bath was done, he drained the water and stepped into the shower with me (fully clothed). This only served to make me feel more uncomfortable. While I knew that we weren't exactly ready to just drop all of our inhibitions and have hot sex right there in the shower, it would've made me feel better if he were naked too. Even the playing field, you know? But he was oblivious to my discomfort. He turned on the showerhead and rinsed away the final vestiges of dirt and muck from my body. Even without being able to see what he was doing, I could _feel_ him mapping out my body.

After that, he stepped out of the shower and took a towel off of the heated rack. He motioned for me to step out, which I did carefully. Then, he eased the towel over my shoulders, rubbing it down my body to make sure every inch of me was dry. Once that towel was done, he retrieved a new one and bundled me up in it. Obviously, he and Zack had had a little chat about hypothermia. Picking me up again, he carried me into the bedroom that we shared and set me down on my bed. A few seconds later, he tossed over the pajamas that Zack had set out for us.

"Hey, Randy?" I asked, needing to break the silence after several hours of nothing else.

"What?" He tossed over his shoulder. I could tell that he wasn't really paying attention to me, though. He was rifling through the pajamas that Zack had left, trying to find something that would fit him. "Yeah, Johnny? I'm listening."

"It's... It's nothing. I was just... thinking about something that you said earlier, that's all." I confessed with a meek smile.

"Oh, and what did I say?" Look at that. He couldn't even remember. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"You said that you would be willing to do anything for me, even lay down your life for me." I told him. Randy nodded, pretending to be listening. "And I just wanted to know if you meant what you said -,"

He cut me off. "Can we continue this conversation in a second? I want to get changed before I get sick."

I sighed, feeling my shoulders slump forward. "Of course. Why not?"

He shot me a thankful smile, before taking his pajamas into the bathroom to get changed. I rolled my eyes. So, it was perfectly acceptable for me to be naked in front of him, but he couldn't be naked in front of me? Did he think I was a hormonally charged teenage boy or something? Okay, maybe I was, but that didn't make much of a difference. I didn't plan to attack him or anything. With a sigh, I rose off of the bed and let the towel fall to the floor. Quickly, I dressed in the pajamas. God forbid Randy come in and find me naked. Oh, the _scandal_. I rolled my eyes again.

Randy returned a few moments later, finding me seated comfortably on the bed. I was still shivering a little bit, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had once been. I turned to him slowly, noticing with chest-clenching realization that his pajamas didn't fit all that well... and that wasn't exactly a bad thing. The pajama bottoms were slung low on his hips, revealing the delectable 'V' that went down to his manhood. The shirt was a few sizes too small and clung to his well-built chest, showing off the faintest hint of a six-pack. Holy shit, I think I may have died...

"Now, what was it that you were trying to ask me?" Randy asked, seemingly genuinely listening now.

I shrugged. I wanted to seem as nonchalant as possible. "You said that you would be willing to do anything for me, even lay down your life. I want to know if that's true, or if it's just something that you say to all the girls." I offered.

Randy frowned. He sat down next to me, the bed shifting awkwardly under his weight. "You know that I wouldn't make something like that up, John. You may think that you don't have anything left - but you have _me_. And I have you. You're the reason I haven't... tried again."

I didn't need to ask to know what he meant. "And you literally mean 'anything'?" I needed to be absolutely sure.

"Well, it depends if its within reason, of course. I can't exactly get you the sun or something like that." Randy laughed.

I tilted my head to the side and offered, "Would killing a man be within your realm of 'reason'?"


	22. The Promise

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

For a moment, all was eerily silent. And then, in a somewhat confused, definitely hesitant voice, Randy asked, "You want me to kill _who_?"

I smirked. I knew from the rapidly fading sense of security on his face that I looked like a man unhinged, and I knew for a fact that that was _exactly_ what I was. "I want you to kill Brock. I want him to pay the highest price for every minute of suffering that I endured."

"You want me to _kill_ him." Randy's voice had more conviction behind it now, but it was still, quite obviously, unsteady. I could see the gears in his head churning - could read every thought that passed through his brain quite clearly in his bright blue eyes. "God, of all the things I thought you'd ask..."

The smirk only grew wider, more devilish. "Never thought that I'd ask you to commit murder, huh?"

"Quite honestly?" Randy raised an eyebrow, choking out brittle laughter. "No. Never saw it coming."

"Oh, but I know you have it in you." I said, my voice dripping with sickly-sweet charm. "I know you can do it, because I know what you almost did to me in that phone booth." Randy's eyes flooded with shame. "I know that you wanted to hurt me, Randy. And you want to hurt Brock too."

"Hurt him, _yes_, but don't you think that killing is taking it a bit too far -,"

I cut him off. "Don't you think what he _did_ to me was _taking it a bit too far_?" I screamed, getting in his face.

Randy pinned my arms to my sides with such force, I found myself unable to move. "John, calm down."

"Don't tell me what to do! Answer the damn question, Randy! Don't you think what he did to me was taking it too far?"

Randy stared into my eyes, slowly slackening his grip. Suddenly, with a terrifying quickness, I felt as if the tables had turned. Instead of reading the tumultuous emotions in Randy's eyes, he was now reading them in mine. Finally, "What aren't you telling me, John?"

I shifted away from him arrogantly, holding myself tightly with my bruised arms. I looked as if someone had beaten me violently, and I wasn't in any type of mindset to actually care. Squeezing my eyes closed, I tried to block out the violent onslaught of memories - but they were too fast, too sly, too cunning. They washed over me like a tidal wave, all consuming. My body trembled violently and Randy was _there_, holding me, shielding me, _protecting me_, but all I could feel was Brock. And with that terrifying notion, I shot up off of the bed and started to tear off my pajamas. He needed to _see_.

Randy could only watch in terrible amazement as my _true_ body started to appear - it wasn't the body that he had seen through the rose-colored glasses of freshly confessed love and new romance. No, that was a body that was beautiful and perfect in every shape of the word. Not even the horrific mutilation that I had endured at the hands of Brock could change how beautiful I looked to Randy in that instant. But now, as he looked at me, naked in every sense of the word, I could hear him suck in a harsh breath and hold it until his face changed color. I was _hideous_.

"John..." He whispered sullenly, unable to believe what his eyes were telling him.

"You want to know why I want you to kill Brock? _This_ is why -," I motioned to one of my scars, this one on my belly.

That time, the abuse hadn't been sexual. Really, looking back on it, it had been more of an accident than anything else. Brock had gotten the mail and had seen that I was flunking out of one of my elective classes because the teacher had been making inappropriate come-ons, and he had threatened to tell Dad. I had chased him around for _hours_, desperate to get it back. In the end, Brock ran into our then-shared bedroom and slammed the door just seconds before I could follow him. The doorknob broke one of my ribs.

Randy's eyes widened, disgust swimming in the vibrant blue pools. "John..." His voice was tinted with anger.

I brushed the hair away from my brow. "Would you like to know how I got this one? Hmm?" My brother, in a fit of rage, had slammed the butt of the gun into my temple, leaving me with a major concussion and intracranial bleeding. "What about this one?" Handcuff marks over one-year old.

"John." Randy growled this time. It was low and lethal, and hot as hell. "What that bastard did to you was sickening, but -,"

"Oh, so now you're gonna try and justify it? I see how it is." I nodded innocently, before motioning to my slightly inflamed pelvis. "Take a look at this, Randy, and make your own assumptions. It's really not hard to guess what happened."

Brock had tried to take me and I had refused - I _always_ refused. I told him that it was wrong, that he'd be punished for it. He always told me that Dad didn't care, but I didn't believe him. Not until now, anyhow. When I continued to refuse, he grabbed hold of me and managed to shatter various sections of my pelvis so that I wouldn't be able to escape. After he had finished with me, he told Dad that I had fallen down the stairs and was 'just a little sore'. I was never taken to the hospital and never received any form of treatment. My pelvis would never be the same again.

Randy was on me in an instant, backing me into the corner, his eyes alight with the same fire that I had seen in the phone booth not five hours before. Only this time, the anger wasn't directed toward me. "Even if I _did_ agree to kill him, what then? We'd _both_ end up in prison for life!"

"Not exactly." I shrugged, as if this were a totally normal conversation. "I know that it's not impossible to get away with murder."

"Yeah, on _television_. John, this is real life. John, if we get caught, they could execute us both. And even if we don't get the death penalty, there's a decent chance that we'd never see each other again. And I couldn't risk that." Randy's voice died away to a whisper.

"No, I've seen it done in real life. I never told you about the first time I was attacked, did I?" Randy frowned, shaking his head. "It was by the two gunman who shot my other father, Shawn. They got away with it and managed about seven years in jail between them. They live down the street from the house."

"It's a one-in-a-million shot, John." Randy said, his eyes still unsure.

I sighed. "Look, I understand if you don't want to do this. I'm kinda freaked out by the idea myself. But I... I..." I didn't know what to say.

Randy nodded, like he understood what I wanted to say without me having to say it. "Don't worry, kid. I'm not about to abandon you now."

I felt a dastardly smile creep across my face. "So you'll do it, then?"

Randy nodded once more, clapping me on the shoulder affectionately. "I promised I'd do anything for you, kid. I don't go back on my word."

A flood of relief washed over me then, too powerful to describe with words. I found myself tripping over my tongue, unable to find words of gratitude that truly fit the situation. In the end, I found that there were none. Randy had just offered to lay down his life for me, an offer that nobody had ever made before and I knew nobody would make again. So many emotions were flickering in his beautiful blue eyes: confusion, hope, despair, anguish, sorrow, but most of all... love. I counted myself lucky that someone could ever love me so much.

Reaching up, I grabbed hold of his neck and pulled him down into a breathtaking kiss. It knocked all of the wind out of both of our bodies, but neither of us seemed to care. His poorly clothed chest was rubbing up against my naked one, my bare back pressed against the wall as he worked one knee between my legs. His hands searched over my naked chest, this time fully aware of every bump, scratch, scar, and bruise... and not caring at the same time. It was a beautiful thing, being loved beyond your scars. A beautiful, wonderful thing. That's when I started to cry.


	23. The Weapon

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

It took me a little while to calm down. Randy led me over to the bed, where he sat me down and rubbed my back. I leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, inhaling that wonderfully intoxicating scent that was undeniably _him_, and listened as he lovingly whispered sweet words into my ear. I'll admit that what we have... some would call it unconventional. But, for me... it was the first _real_ love that I had ever experienced. And I couldn't help but want more and more of it, _from it_, no matter how selfish that may have seemed.

Once I was no longer on the brink of hyperventilation, Randy suggested that we should go to bed. It was late, after all, and I had had a very trying day. I didn't want to mention the close encounter with the man in the clearing. Randy didn't need anything else to worry about. He pulled the blankets back and allowed me to slide in, before coming to rest beside me and covering us both. Well - I have to say that _this_ was a pleasant surprise. I smiled up at him, and he returned it with a cocky half-smile of his own. Then, leaning forward, he kissed my forehead and set my cheeks aflame.

"Goodnight, John." He whispered warmly, his breath fanning out over my skin and causing me to blush deeper.

"Goodnight, Randy." And, burrowing deeper into his waiting arms, I fell asleep knowing for certain that someone would protect me during the night.

* * *

The next morning, I awoke before Randy. He was still sleeping soundly, one arm strewn over my middle, while the rest of his body was haphazardly tossed across the tiny twin-sized bed. I couldn't even begin to imagine how odd it would've looked to see two teenage boys crammed into one twin, but I knew that it would've been funny as hell. Carefully, I removed his arm from my middle and slid off of the bed without making a sound. There was still something I had to do - someone I had to thank. Without him, I knew full-well that none of this would have been possible. Walking into the other room, I used the cordless house phone to dial Phil's number.

Phil answered on the third ring, sounding groggy, but awake - for the most part. _"Hello?"_

"Phil, it's John." I told him. That seemed to wake him up a little bit. I heard him curse lowly as he fumbled around for the remote control, let out a cry of triumph as he found it, and the background roar of the television soon died away. "I'm sorry, did I catch you in the middle of your show?"

_"Nah, man. You caught me in the middle of _sleeping_ through my show. But that doesn't matter. I missed most of it anyway. Ah, well, that's what On Demand is for, anyhow."_ He rambled for a few seconds, before pausing for air. _"What can I do you for, Johnny?"_

I continued to walk into the dining room, plopping down onto one of the worn wooden chairs. "I wanted to say 'thank you'."

A sigh came from the other end of the line. _"What have I told you, Johnny? You don't really need to thank me for anything."_

"I know that that's what you said, but I really mean it." I peered as far down the hallway as I could from the chair, only managing to catch a glimpse of our bedroom's doorjamb. "When you called Glen, he brought Randy with him. And... well, the rest, as they say, is history."

If I had been in the same room with him at the time, I knew that his eyes would be bulging from their sockets. _"You didn't_."

_That_ made me laugh. "No, I didn't. Not yet, anyhow. Randy wants to wait and take it slow, and I can respect that. But we _did_ kiss."

"_Oh_..." Phil sounded like a hormonally driven teenage girl. He added a little bit of a sniffle for dramatic effect. "_My little Johnny has had his first kiss. Next thing I know, he'll be getting married and moving far, far away. I already miss you Johnny!" _He then pretended to burst into tears.

"Very funny, Phil." But I was smiling, and both of us knew it. "What Randy and I have... it's good. And I want to try and make it last." The smile faltered a little as I realized all that we were standing against. "Listen, its really early here and I don't want to make the shit list again for waking anybody up, so..."

_"I understand."_ There was a considerable pause that was not entirely uncomfortable. _"And you're welcome."_

"I'll visit you soon, okay?" He agreed, but I guess I didn't sound too convincing, because he sounded rather half-hearted. "Bye."

"Bye." And then the line went dead.

Sure enough, someone _was_ awake. But it wasn't who I had feared. Mere seconds after I ended the call, a shirtless Randy rounded the corner. He was lazily rubbing his sore eye sockets and mumbling curses beneath his breath - obviously not a morning person. I offered him my warmest smile, which he didn't return. Instead, he painfully inclined his head toward the stove. It was a silent offer to make breakfast, which I readily accepted. While I don't normally admit to it, I'm not the World's Best Cook. I'd probably burn the house down before actually succeeding in preparing a dish. Even something as simple as waffles and bacon.

While he made breakfast, I took a quick shower. I didn't really need to stay under the water too long, considering I had just taken a bath last night. A smile came unbidden at the memory of Randy's hands softly gliding over my body, instilling in me the fact that I was beautiful despite my bruises and scars. Nobody had ever made me feel that way before, and I was certain that nobody would make me feel that way again. Something about Randy was undeniably special, I just couldn't figure out what it was quite yet. Once I was finished in the shower, I dressed in plain blue jeans and an oversized t-shirt. Nothing really special would happen today.

When I came back to the dining room, Randy had exceeded my expectations. Fluffy, sweet blueberry pancakes sat in the middle of the table, next to a stack of fresh, crisp bacon, and a bowl of a assorted fruit. It looked absolutely heavenly. "You like what you see?" Randy asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah." I nodded enthusiastically, smiling all the while. He even pulled out my chair so that I could sit down. "Thank you." And then, "I didn't know you could cook."

Randy shrugged, his eyes clouding over a little bit. "The cook in juvy took me under his wing, showed me my way around the kitchen. I learned a lot from him."

I was already stuffing food into my face. "Yeah, you really did, because this is fucking _delicious_."

"Good, I'm glad you like it." He started to eat as well, but at a much more respectable pace. Once I finished, I started to help myself to the fruits. "John?" Looking up at the sound of my name, I looked into his tired eyes. "Do you even know where your brother is now?"

At the mention of Brock, I sat back in my seat and started to shift uncomfortably. "Yeah, I do. Well, I sort of do, at least." I looked down at my hands, suddenly finding them incredibly interesting. "He's living with my Dad, last time I checked. He was released from the hospital and Dad paid off the judge, so he's going to walk clean."

"That's not fair." Randy concluded, his voice solemn.

"No." I shook my head, my appetite suddenly lost. "It's really not."

It wasn't fair to _anyone_ involved with what had happened that night. Adam had been shot, for crying out loud! And then, in the hospital, he had received the news that his boyfriend had died in the line of duty. I had been raped - but as of right now, Randy was the only one who knew. Sure, Dad knew that I had been raped by Brock _at some point, _but he didn't know that it was what had set off that horrific chain of events. And Randy, well... he could have very well killed a man. He'd seen Brock's rage at it's finest and just recalling that memory added fuel to both of our metaphorical fires.

Randy finished his meal, before he rose to collect the dishes. Before he could travel far, however, he told me, "I want you to meet me back in our bedroom around three-thirty this afternoon. I have some business that needs to be tended to, regarding our arrangement."

Instantly, deep within my heart, I knew what it was that he was talking about. "Randy - are you sure? That's so dangerous."

But Randy turned his steely eyes on me, and I could see for myself just how serious he was. "I told you, John. I don't go back on my word."

* * *

A plain, cardboard box. Randy nonchalantly set it on the foot of the bed, after returning five minutes before our predetermined time. I couldn't help but stare at it, completely enthralled by the mystery behind its contents. However, when I made to reach for it, Randy gently slapped my hand away. At that time, I couldn't help but notice how badly bruised his hand was. He wouldn't let me ask about it. After several moments of stalling - most likely to make sure that I wouldn't look in the box - he wandered off to take a shower and bandage his hand, leaving me alone to my own devices.

As I waited for him to return, I allowed my mind to drift to my father and the halfway house. As of late, I had been having horrifically vivid dreams of the halfway house burning down, and couldn't decide how I felt about it. Of course, I didn't want my father to _die_. I might not of been incredibly fond of him, but I didn't wish him dead. But the house itself? That was another story entirely. A story that is far from finished, I have no doubt. And as another, darker thought tried to come to the forefront of my mind, Randy came out of the shower, dressed only in a fluffy white towel, which was secured around his waist.

"Are you going to tell me what's in the box now?" I asked him excitedly. I didn't take well to surprises, and I was incredibly impatient.

"Getting a little antsy, huh? Fine, I'll show it to you. But it has to stay in here until we make our move - and it's our little secret. Understand?" I nodded. Taking a small knife out from where he had hidden it under the bed, he cut the box open and peeled away the flaps, revealing what was inside.

My eyes widened as I stared inside, suddenly feeling my heart rate increase. "Oh my God, you didn't..."

"Oh, but I did." He smiled, a dark flicker behind it. "And I did it for you."

Out of the box, he produced a sleek, silver handgun and a magazine of bullets.


	24. Planning the End

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

"Isn't it beautiful?" Randy asked. He had a manic look in his eyes as he raised the gun into the air, carefully balancing it on his two hands. "The most powerful handgun available. Got it for quite the bargain, too. Two-hundred bucks. It sells for seven-hundred in a regular gun store."

_That_ caught my attention. He'd paid two-hundred dollars for a gun to kill Brock with, and hadn't received it from a reputable dealer. Because, seriously, what kind of reputable dealer would sell a gun to a seventeen-year-old kid? "Randy... where did you get the gun?"

My question seemed to shock Randy, as the gun almost fell out of his hands. I was about to repeat myself when he offered, "Does it matter?"

"Yeah, I think that it does." I said. "I think it matters... because you don't want to tell me where it came from. Are we in danger, Randy?"

Bright blue eyes widened. "No! I would _never_ allow you to get into trouble for _any_ of this. If they somehow manage to trace the bullets from the gun back to the weapon itself, I'll be the one to take the blame. You'll walk away clean."

"And what does that mean for you? You'll be in jail for a life sentence for murder one. And I'll be all alone."

Randy softly smoothed his hand over my cheek, a warm, caring smile on his face. "You wouldn't do well in jail, Johnny."

I could feel the tears start to bubble in my eyes, and I silently cursed myself for being so weak. "I wouldn't do well without _you." _I confessed.

Randy kissed my forehead and I felt an all-encompassing warmth spread throughout my body. No matter how hard I tried to be mad at him, my efforts were ruined after that. "Well, we can always hope that it never comes to that. But, just in case..." he pulled the silver ring off his finger, "something to remember me by."

I broke down into a proper sobbing fit after that. I was a mess and not afraid to admit to it. Still, Randy did not hesitate to take my hand and slip the ring onto my ring finger. It was a perfect fit - which surprised me, because his hands were much bigger than my own. And then he took me into his arms and held me, whispering sweet nonsensical words into my ear while I sobbed into his chest. Oddly enough, I had always felt like this was the most romantic gesture Randy had ever made. His willingness to sit in a jail cell for life just didn't compare... probably because he was never charged with Brock's murder, but that's another story entirely.

While I was attempting to calm myself down - attempting being the operative word there - Randy was rubbing my back and telling me the story of how he had obtained the gun. We both spoke in hushed tones at this point, because there was no telling who was awake and would happen to walk by at the worst moment. Randy confessed to obtaining the gun under the table, but he swore that the man that had given it to him (for such a bargain at two-hundred dollars, mind you) had been an honest tradesman. When he told me how he had met the guy, however, I started to have my doubts.

"So... you said that this man is nearly double our age?" I asked, causing him to nod. "I have to ask, and I think that you knew this was coming - how do you know someone so well if there is such an age-gap between the two of you?"

Randy smirked. He looked over at the gun, which he had placed back into the box before he initiated our little hug. "He was a friend of my father's." Randy said in his matter-of-fact, take-it-or-leave-it tone.

A friend... of his father's. For a second there, he almost had me convinced that he forgot telling me about finding his parents after they OD'd on that fateful night. He must've seen the confusion in my eyes, but he didn't elaborate on it at all. Instead, he forged on with the story. He told me that this man, known to his parents as Paul Wight, had been indebted to his father after his father led a prison break that got Wight out of prison. His charge had been armed robbery, but he'd served an additional five years for breaking out once before. The gun repaid that debt. And, as Randy told it, he trusted Paul's respect for his late father and knew he gave him nothing but the best.

"Have you ever... fired a gun before, Randy?" I asked a little worriedly.

That dark look came over Randy's face again. It was the kind of look that said he'd rather not share, but was going to anyhow. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Johnny. I kind of what to keep it that way. It's better for you." A pause. "But, if you absolutely must know, yes - I have fired a gun before."

"Why are you so concerned about me, Randy?" Now, there was an undeniable edge to my voice. "I can take care of myself, you know."

Randy smiled sadly. "Yes, but I would much rather take care of you then leave you to take care of yourself. That's why you have to trust me.

"I _do_ trust you, Randy. I just want to know the truth." He recoiled a bit at that and I knew my tone had gotten undeniably harsh.

"You _do_ know the truth, John. Or, at the very least, all of it that matters." Randy then rose to his feet, taking the box and tucking it away at a safe location. "If I tell you any more, I'll be putting your life in danger and I just can't do that."

A look of confusion crossed my face. "Why would my life be in danger?"

"This conversation is over."

I looked at the clock. Our little debate had started at three-thirty, and it was only three forty-five now. It felt like our argument had lasted well over an hour. But I seemed to be the only one upset about it. Randy continued about his business, getting changed into some plain clothes to go and offer himself up to work for Glen and Zack. He'd done so before and had earned us some nice pocket change for when we decided to head back home. That seemed to be happening sooner than I had originally thought. With a kiss to my forehead and a pat on my cheek, he was gone. I fell back onto the bed, exhausted. That gun gave me the creeps...

* * *

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute - Adam, would you shush for ten seconds and let me get a word in edge-wise?" Silence fell. "Thank you. Now, all I asked was if you had talked to Dad recently. Why did that send you into such a frenzy?"

The line went silent for a long stretch of time. A few times, I worried that he had hung up the phone or that Randy's phone had dropped the call, but the connection was still there. On the other end of the line, I could hear the undeniable sound of sniffles. Adam was crying. But I couldn't tell why, because he wouldn't answer me. With a sigh, I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder and continued to throw stuff into the suitcase on the bed. It wasn't _our_ stuff, not necessarily. We had come there with nothing, after all. But we were taking the things that we had used - spare clothes, bed sheets, blankets, etc. Oh, and the money Randy had worked for too.

"Adam, I'm not sure why you're not answering me, but this is getting kind of annoying. We've been on the line for twenty minutes and -,"

Finally, Adam cut him off. _"Yeah, I've talked to your bastard of a father recently."_ More sniffles. _"What do you want with him?"_

I was a bit taken aback by Adam's harsh language. Usually, he had nothing but praise for my old man. Somehow, I managed to be insulted and proud simultaneously. "What happened between the two of you? Usually you're so much... well, happier."

Adam sniffled again. _"He came to me the other day, wanted to know if I had heard from you. I said no. He didn't believe me and started to get into my face, calling me all sorts of unfavorable names. I could _smell_ the alcohol on his breath, Johnny. And for a minute... I was afraid. Then he kissed me."_

This description was getting rather graphic... and disturbing. "And how does make you angry at my father?" I asked.

_"He pulled back and... and... he called me... S-Shawn."_ And then Adam was crying uncontrollably again.

"Oh..." I hadn't expected that one.

Adam went on to explain that Dad had attempted to apologize - once he had come to his senses and realized that Adam wasn't Papa, of course - but only made the entire situation worse by comparing the two of them. Eventually, he had just forced a watery smile and attempted to brush it off. But Dad just wouldn't let it go. Apparently, he then proceeded to tell Adam that he had had feelings for him for awhile and that he was fairly certain he was in love with him. Again, a little TMI, but I couldn't help but feel bad for the man that I considered part of the family. If I were him, I wouldn't have believed one word out of Dad's mouth.

"I'm sorry to hear about that. I don't blame you for reacting that way, though. I wouldn't have believed him either." I confessed my earlier thoughts aloud. "But I really need you to do me a favor, Shawn. Not for Dad, for me."

There was a moment's pause, then, _"What do you need me to do?"_

I started to grab some of the clothes that Zack had leant us, throwing them into the second suitcase on the bed. "I talked to Randy and we've decided to come home." I told him, thought this wasn't entirely true. "I want to surprise Dad, so I need someone to distract him for an hour or two."

_"John..."_ Adam sounded uncertain.

"I wouldn't ask you unless I really needed this, Addy. _Please_."

With a sigh, Adam finally agreed. _"I'll distract him. I might not like it, but I'll do it... for you."_

"You don't know how thankful I am to hear that." I told him, closing and locking the suitcases at the same time. "We'll be arriving sometime tomorrow morning. I'll call you and let you know when to set the plan into motion." Adam agreed. "Thanks, bye."

* * *

Once darkness fell, I transferred all of the luggage that we were taking to Randy's car. Randy walked around to the passenger side of the car, holding the door open for me and closing it once I was inside. And then he got in, starting the car and quickly pulling out of the driveway. We had both decided that it would be better if Glen didn't know that we were leaving. He could really mess things up if he tipped Dad off to our impending arrival. I knew that I could trust Adam because, after our little phone call, it was clear that the two of them were not on the best of terms.

As Randy drove, he confided in me with the plan. I still had the key to the front door, so I'd get us both inside. We'd arrive early, and first off, make sure that Dad was out of the house. There was a cluster of trees to the left of the house - Randy could hide the car behind there and Dad would never see it. Once we were inside, I'd use my key to Dad's office to get the master keys. All of the rooms locked from the outside only (a security measure that my Dad had installed after our first round of residents broke the house rules and brought a girl back after-hours) and I would lock the other residents in their rooms.

I told Randy all that I knew about Brock - his sleeping patterns, when he went to the bathroom, when he woke up on weekdays versus weekends, etc. It would be the weekend, so he wouldn't wake up until _at least_ eleven-thirty. That would leave plenty of time. Randy would take the gun (it was hidden in the trunk, under the suitcases) into Brock's room and kill him before he could even wake up. It seemed like the perfect plan. Of course, I would be relying on memory alone in a house that I hadn't seen in two weeks... but what could possibly go wrong?


	25. According to Plan

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

We arrived at the house around 4:30 AM.

Randy parked the Bentley about a half-mile down the road from the actual house. Since the house was on a strip of land that was practically isolated from the rest of town, I could safely assume that nobody had heard us coming and nobody would stumble across the car any time soon. Still, just to be on the safe side, the car was under the cover of various trees and shrubbery, and the dark paint blended well in the general darkness. I don't know what we would have done if his car had been _pink_...

Once I was sure that the coast was clear, I fumbled in my pocket for the first key: the key to the front door. My hands were trembling badly, making it exceptionally difficult to hook my fingers around the slim piece of metal. It wasn't that I was nervous or anything like that. No, 'nervous' definitely wasn't the right word. _Anxious_, perhaps, but not nervous. There was never any reason to fear when I knew that Randy had my back. Finally, I grabbed hold of the key, and started to make my way toward the front door.

Dad's car wasn't outside, which was an excellent sign. Everything within the plan was falling into place after all. I took the steps leading to the front door two at a time, and somehow, managed to force my trembling hand to insert the key into the lock and turn it. When the door was open, I immediately retracted the key and replaced it in my pocket. Turning back to Randy, I waved him inside. He had stuffed the gun down the back of his jeans, leaving an awkward bulge. I suppose he realized that, because he pulled his sweatshirt down over it.

He hurried inside and I gently closed the door behind him. Once I was sure that nobody was awake and had heard us come in, I turned to him. "We need to take off our shoes. They'll make too much noise on the stairs."

Randy smirked. That look alone was enough to make my heart flutter madly. "Good thinking." He took out his shoes, and placed them next to mine just outside the coat closet. "Now, where is this office that you were telling me about?"

"You remember the library?" He nodded. "There is a hallway across from the library. His office is at the end. I can make it there and back in a couple of minutes. Just stay here, okay? And if you hear someone coming, hide over there." The corner was concealed in shadow.

"Okay." He nodded, his voice scarcely above a whisper. We could hardly afford to be any louder. "Hurry."

I didn't answer him. There wasn't enough time to answer him. I took off running, my sock-clad feet much softer on the floor than my shoes would have been. When I was a certain distance into the house, the light that had come from the street lamps failed me, and I had to resort to a dim flashlight. With it, I was easily able to locate the hallway. It seemed longer than I remembered, with many more rooms, but his office was still at the end, just like I knew that it would be. Taking out yet another key, I unlocked the door and slid inside.

My Dad was an extremely methodical person, and he always did things the same way, at the same time, every day. And I knew for a fact that he _should_ have a master set of keys, hanging on a ring next to the door to his office. He _always_ put them there. And he wasn't the kind of man to change his routine... unless... someone changed it for him. Shit. He was usually in bed by now, and he always took the keys with him to bed. Since Adam had taken him out so suddenly... he must've taken the keys with him wherever they went.

I raced back out to meet Randy, looking incredibly dejected and more than a little embarrassed. "The keys aren't there."

His icy blue eyes widened. "What the hell do you mean, 'the keys aren't there'?"

"Shh." I practically had to put my hand over his mouth, and when I did that, he _bit_ me. Little bastard. "We can't be so loud in here! Our voices carry, and they'll wake someone up, and we'll be _screwed_. Do you understand me?"

Randy scowled at me, and I released him slowly. "What happened to the keys that you were so _sure_ would be there?"

"I forgot that my Dad always takes them with him at night, wherever he is. He doesn't usually lock the residents in, though, so that's a bonus." I told him confidently. "We just have to be careful, and we run a higher risk of getting caught." There's the bad news. "Do you have the silencer?"

Randy looked like he was caught somewhere between disbelief and anger. "Of _course_ I have the silencer! At least _I_ came prepared." His words cut me to the quick, but like I said: when you really don't care, you can forget a lot in two weeks.

I was fully prepared to wallow in self-induced angst for a little while, but realized there was no time for that. "C'mon, it's almost five in the morning. I don't know how long Adam will be able to hold him off, so we can't procrastinate."

Randy rolled his eyes. "Whatever." And let me tell you, _that_ hurt.

Still, I didn't comment on it. Like I said, there really wasn't all that much time, and there certainly wasn't any time to wallow. Without looking back to see if he was following me, I started up the stairs. I was no longer as confident having Randy at my back, but that didn't mean that I didn't trust him. It was all-too-easy to reach Brock's bedroom (considering I still remembered where my own bedroom was, and Brock's was linked to it via bathroom) and, like I had earlier suspected, the doors weren't locked from the outside, so we gained easy access inside.

Like I had told Randy earlier, Brock was fast asleep in his bed. Randy stared down at him for a few seconds, a look of contempt on his face, before he set to work. Out of the pocket out his sweatshirt, he took out a pair of latex gloves. I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy about this, thinking about my earlier question of 'had he ever fired a gun before'. Maybe a better question would have been 'had he ever _killed_ before'. Because he certainly seemed to know what he was doing, and how to get away with it. Once the gloves were on, he pulled out the gun.

With a calculated swiftness, he took off the safety and slid on the silencer. I didn't know how many bullets he had in that handgun and I didn't really want to know. He swung it around in his hand, before pressing it to Brock's temple. I winced, knowing that a shot at such close range would be messy and painful - that was, of course, if it didn't kill him instantly. And it was hard to believe that it wouldn't, with the damage he had sustained to his head during his first encounter with Randy. Randy's finger was on the trigger now, and in a second, it would be over...

"What the hell is going on here?" I knew that voice. I would know that voice _anywhere_. I turned around, coming face-to-face with my father. "John Cena Helmsley, what do you think that you're doing? And Randy? Put that thing away!"

Randy turned around, eyes narrowed at my father. For a split second, I worried that he was going to turn the gun on my Dad. But that split second of hesitation was all that it took. Unfortunately, Dad's little 'outburst' had woken Brock, who easily snatched the gun away from Randy. It all happened to quickly after that. He raised the gun into the air, leveled it at me, and fired. I could almost _see _the bullet cutting through the air, twisting and turning, before it burrowed into my chest. It felt like an explosion of heat had gone off inside of me, and suddenly, the entire world was blurry and melting.

"John!" I couldn't tell whether it was Randy or my Dad screaming... all of their voices were starting to blend together.

The gun went off one more time, but I don't know who shot it. All I could feel were someone's arms around me, and all I could hear was the sounds of a storm starting outside the halfway house.


	26. Next on the List

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone.  
**Rated:** M  
**Warning(s):** Slash, Crime, Non-Con, Incest, etc.

* * *

"John? _John!"_ That was definitely my Dad's voice, slowly summoning me back from the murky, muddled depths of my own mind. He had a hand on my chest and it was difficult to express just how much that _hurt_. "C'mon, Johnny! Wake up! _Wake up!"_ His voice was breaking with every word.

"I can't get through to 911. The storm must've taken out the lines." And that was undeniably Adam. I was certain that I would've recognized the soft, yet firm voice anywhere. If he was trying to call 911, then I doubted he had been shot. "What do we do now?"

Dad seemed to consider this for a moment, and I could feel his body trembling behind mine. "We'll have to drive him ourselves. We already have one casualty," here, he stopped, and I could feel wet, salty tears drip onto my shoulder, "We cannot afford to have two."

"Are you _crazy_?" Adam's voice was suddenly louder, like he was standing closer. "If you get behind the wheel in this kind of mess, you'll both, undoubtedly, end up dead. That's a lose-lose situation if I ever heard one. No," he said firmly, "the bullet went clean through, so he doesn't need surgery immediately."

"But he _will_ need it eventually." Dad was pushing Adam a little too hard, and I think he knew it - he just didn't care.

"Yes, _of course_ he'll need it eventually. He's got a gaping hole in his chest, Hunter!" Adam snapped, before kneeling down in-front of me. "Now..."

Dad yanked my body away from him. My eyes fluttered as sharp bolts of white-hot pain seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. "Don't touch him!" Dad warned, his voice dangerously low.

"Fine." In a blur of crystalline colors, I saw Adam raise his hands agitatedly. "I'll just let him bleed out on the floor. Is that what you want?"

"How could you even ask that? I've already lost one son -,"

Here, Adam cut him off. "And I didn't think that you were so keen on losing two."

At that, Dad fell eerily silent. Instead of saying anything, he leaned down and kissed me on the top of my head, like he used to do when I was a little kid. And then, the hand that was applying pressure to my bullet wound loosened, and then it fell. For a brief second, I caught a glimpse of all the blood that stained that hand. My poor condition suddenly became very, very real. Dad took hold of my shoulders and gently (or, at least, as gently as he could) moved me so that I was laying down. An almost unbearable flare of pain shot through me as my bullet wound touched the floor.

Neither of them had much medical experience, but they did all they could to make me comfortable. Adam wandered off - in my position, I couldn't really see where he was going - and returned with a spray-bottle of saline solution. He used it to clean out the wound. Dad was groaning about the amount of blood that I had lost, and was still losing, but Adam didn't seem too concerned about that. In fact, he mentioned, lightly, that the flow of blood had slowed considerably. There was a metallic _clank_ as he set the bottle down onto the hardwood floor, and a tearing sound as he opened a packet of gauze.

In a clear, authoritative voice, Adam told my Dad to hold my shoulders down. After a few seconds of hesitation, I felt him apply gentle pressure to my shoulders. Adam then took the gauze pad and secured it over the bullet hole. He applied one to my back as well, where the bullet had exited my body. According to Adam, there was a little bit of seepage, but there wasn't a lot of blood. And then, with Adam grabbing hold of my feet and Dad carefully grabbing hold of my shoulders, I was transferred into my bedroom. They placed me onto the bed and covered me with a thin blanket to keep me warm.

"We need to make sure that he remains hydrated and warm." Adam informed Dad. "If he goes into shock, then we'll most likely lose him. I would recommend waking him at half-hour intervals. If the wound weeps through the covering, change it immediately. Otherwise, every two hours or so will do."

Dad was stroking my head slowly, and I had to admit, the feeling was comforting. "How do you know so much about taking care of a shot victim?"

"I wanted to be a doctor." Adam confessed. "I only dropped out of medical school when I found out about the baby and Jeff got deployed."

"Oh." Dad said lamely, before dropping the conversation entirely.

Adam's blur looked down at me. "Give him Tylenol every four hours. Nothing stronger. Narcotics can be dangerous in his current condition, and Tylenol won't thin his blood. Make sure that he remains hydrated. Dehydration is just as much a danger as bleeding out right now."

"You sound like you're leaving." Dad's voice was tense, worried.

"I am." Adam wandered off again, most likely to put the medical supplies back into the bathroom. When he returned, he continued, "You obviously don't need me around here anymore. For him or..." here, he trailed off, his voice just as tense as Dad's.

Dad stopped stroking my head. "I want you to stay here, Adam. You said yourself, it's not safe out there. Your daughter shouldn't have to lose both of her parents." There was an uncomfortable pause. "I _do_ care about you, Adam... and I _can't_ lose anyone else. Not after Brock..."

"You're out of your head with pain, Hunter. You've lost a child, which no parent should have to go through. You don't know what you're saying."

I could hear the pain in both of their voices, even through my pain-haze. Dad's blur was moving closer to Adam, his arms reaching out to him, and Adam didn't recoil. They might've kissed, though I'm not one-hundred percent sure. The sounds of Adam's sobs were unbearably loud to my highly-sensitive ears. Black dots swam before my eyes and for a minute, I think I blacked out. The pain from the bullet-hole was absolutely unbearable. I just don't think that simple words do it justice. When my blurry, fuzzy vision returned, the blobs had separated and Adam's blob was making it's way toward the door.

"I just... I can't do it, Hunter. I'm sorry." The sound of the door opening filled the awkward silence. "I'll be back tomorrow to check in on him, but if the storm gets any better, call 911 immediately. Okay?" His voice sounded strained and boggled with tears.

"Yeah, okay." Dad answered. And then, there was a hopeful, "I'm so sorry for hurting you. I hope that you know that."

Adam was silent for a moment, before offering, "Yeah, I know." And then the door closed.

It seemed that, now that he was away from the scrutiny of the public eye, Dad could finally let his true emotions show. He crumpled into the nearest chair at my beside and started to sob audibly. He took my hand, gently massaging the skin there, and even through my crystalline blur, I could see that he was staring fixatedly at the gauze covering my wound. And then, for the first time, it hit me. Brock was dead. Randy must've wrestled the gun back and shot him. Brock couldn't hurt me anymore. But Dad had seen... he'd seen his eldest son murdered in-front of him. And I knew he'd ever be the same again.

"Please, hold on Johnny. _Please..."_ And he started to sob again. That was my last vision before succumbing to the darkness.

* * *

I woke-up sometime later with one thought in mind, _Where was Randy?_ There was a half-empty water bottle on the bedside table next to me, as well as a bottle of Tylenol. I realized then that I must've woken up several times before, but I had absolutely no recollection of doing so. That was a little scary. But I didn't dwell on it for long. My _real_ concern was for Randy and his safety. If, like I imagined, _he_ was the one who had shot Brock, he now had two witnesses to testify to that. He'd be put away for life... if they ever found him. And I had an inkling that he was no longer in the halfway house.

I half expected to find Dad at my beside, but he was nowhere to be found. He was probably downstairs in his office. It was always business with him. Business _always_ came first. And, as much as I hated to admit it, that _hurt_. Here I was, lying on what could have been my death bed, and his only concern was the monthly bottom line. In fact, now that I took the time to _really_ look around the room, I found that I was entirely alone. The only bright side was that Dad had, thankfully, moved my cell phone to the bedside table so that I could call for help if I really needed it.

Suddenly feeling incredibly parched, I leaned over (careful not to disturb my wound, which burned _terribly) _and grabbed hold of the water bottle. The cap wasn't on very tight, so it was easy to take it off and then take a swig. A casual glance to my right told me that the storm was clearing up and I'd soon be transported to the hospital. Once again, I found my thoughts drawn to Randy. Where was he? Was he safe? Had _he_ been shot as well? I knew that I was worrying too much and I'd find all of this out in due time, but I was concerned for the welfare of my 'boyfriend' - if I could even call him that.

My phone started to vibrate on the bedside table. Once again, I leaned over, expecting to see Dad's name and number pop-up. Instead, I saw Randy's name. Quickly, I grabbed the phone and answered it. "Hello?"

_"Who else hurt you, John?"_ Randy didn't even say 'hello'. Skipping all formalities, he cut straight to the chase.

"What do you mean?" I asked, knowing full-well what he meant. He wanted to know who else had hurt me, had hurt me like Brock. "What happened in there, Randy? Where did you go?" I wanted to ask if he was okay, but I held back - I don't know why.

_"It doesn't matter where I am."_ Randy said stiffly, effectively cutting off the conversation there. _"And you know what happened in there. Brock took the gun off of me and shot you, I took the gun back, and shot Brock. End of story."_

"Why did you leave, Randy?" Just as I asked this, Randy started to cough brutally.

_"Who else hurt you, John?"_ Randy's voice was thick, and he coughed again. It sounded awful. It was a chest-rattling cough.

"Are you hurt?" I asked him. But, like I expected, he simply ignored me.

_"Who else hurt you, John?"_ He had a one-track mind and I knew that I couldn't really deter him from it. He was wheezing on the other end of the line, and I wanted to press him further about any injuries, but... I forced myself to remain silent.

All it took were two little words to seal the man's fate, but I found myself confessing anyhow, "Mark Callaway."


End file.
